


These Vagabond Shoes

by dietplainlite



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, Gen, New York City, Sherlolly - Freeform, past adlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2014-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-17 15:15:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 22,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dietplainlite/pseuds/dietplainlite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An heiress, a case, and a reunion with Molly Hooper. Sherlock Holmes is supposed to be lying low. He is dead, after all. But the City That Never Sleeps has other plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Angel of the Waters

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Molly or Sherlock or any of the BBC Sherlock characters. I do lay claim to my original characters, as I think they're pretty nifty.
> 
> This fic was inspired by my feeling homesick for a town that isn't mine, but feels like home the second I put my feet on that hard concrete.

"This angel. She's my favorite angel. I like them best when they're statuary. They commemorate death but they suggest a world without dying. They are made of the heaviest things on earth, stone and iron, they weigh tons but they're winged, they are engines and instruments of flight. This is the angel Bethesda." Tony Kushner— _Angels in America Part Two: Perestroika_

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock Holmes sits on the rim of Bethesda Fountain on the kind of perfect October day that some would have you believe doesn't exist anymore in New York. It is remarkably quiet save for the music of the fountain behind him and, in the lower terrace, a lone busker (Julliard student, on scholarship, busks for money for food and the occasional CD, he will drop a fifty in her hat when he leaves) sings an aria from _La Boheme_. She has a lilting soprano that should keep her working steadily in smaller cities but will never garner her international acclaim.

He considers adding busking to his routine, imagines himself on a subway platform or park with his violin. He could kill countless hours of this blasted waiting doing that. Perhaps after he's explored Central Park in its entirety. He has explored about one fourth of it in detail, storing what is relevant and deleting what is not.

He has been in New York for two weeks, staying in the sublet apartment of a Nigerian student near 137th and Broadway. (He believes he's actually a sub sub leaser, but he doesn't care.) The neighborhood is gentrified enough that his pasty Englishness doesn't warrant a second glance among the pert blonde mums in yoga pants pushing $1500 strollers, but is still holding on tenaciously to its original character.

His progress has been halted by the news that Moriarty's network in the city has ties to the Mafia. He has been ordered to wait for more information as Mycroft explores how intricate those ties are (and if Moriarty is a just a string in the Mafioso web, or vice versa [either option complicating matters immensely, but the latter would be disastrous to the Holmes brothers' plans.]) Mycroft's progress has been painfully slow, as he has to use means that will alert neither the Mafia nor the FBI that he is interested.

So Sherlock waits, and has been advised by his brother to learn the city, to learn the people in the city, in preparation for the very real prospect that he will have to pose as a native. In service of that, he has spent the past two weeks rambling about the city day and night, via cab, subway, bus and by foot, only returning occasionally to his tiny walk up to sleep for a few hours. He has mainly kept to Manhattan, but has meandered to the other four boroughs on occasion. His unlimited monthly Metro Card is almost worn out from swiping, and he is already learning the best directions to give the cab drivers, though he sometimes lets them take him on their meandering, fare hiking routes just to see new areas of the city. He will often disappoint the cab drivers by asking to stop well before the ride is over when he spies something of interest. Sometimes it is something like a tiny artisan bagel shop, other times a landmark like the Natural History Museum (he spent an entire afternoon in the gem room.)

In one hand he holds a cup of tea, from one of two places in the city where he has found a decent cup of tea. This one is on Central Park West. He prefers the other one, run by a former Londoner, but being in the West Village it was a bit impractical.

There is another cup of tea sitting beside him, waiting for a small, steady hand to cradle it and a really not too small set of lips to sip it. Molly Hooper is in town for a conference. She is presenting a paper, in fact. It's hard to imagine her doing such a thing (and for some reason he imagines her presenting the paper in her lab coat) even after seeing firsthand how remarkably strong she really is. He has not seen her since the day of his death, and the dream like images of her calm confidence have been again eclipsed by the more numerous images of her nervousness in his presence. He wonders how she'll be today. He admits to choosing this meeting place because he thinks she'll like it, and because it is one of his favorite spots in the park so far. He is actually a bit nervous thinking about whether she'll appreciate the fountain, and has a vague idea that he'd like to take her to the zoo.

He pushes this thought aside as spots her tiny form walking through the lower terrace. She turns her head to the opera singer for just a moment before she spots him and takes off running. He sets down his cup and stands up quickly, realizing he should probably go to her lest her momentum launch them both into the fountain upon meeting.

Her momentum when she reaches him and wraps her arms around him is enough to knock a bit of the wind out of him, but he does remain standing. She squeezes him tightly and he tentatively places his hands on her shoulders. She pulls away a bit and looks up at him, beaming.

"I'm sorry. I just, I can't believe it's actually you. Until I saw you I thought it had to be some mistake or a joke. At the last second I even thought it might be a trap. But it's you." She hugs him again, throwing her arms around his neck, and this time he returns it, wrapping his arms around her and burying his nose in her hair (She'd been wearing a hat but it had fallen off while she was running) his sense memory immediately reveling in the familiar fragrance. He chuckles when it occurs to him that the entire scene has been set to music, and that to an onlooker it might seem like a bit from a romantic movie. It also occurs to him that this is the first time anyone has hugged him in months, and that she was the last one to do it, on the day he died.


	2. Subterranean Homesick Blues

Molly pulls away again and gives him a closer look. She reaches up and pushes his hat back on his head a bit.

"Sherlock, you're ginger!"

"Very astute, Molly," he says. He pulls his cap back over his hair and sits down on the fountain's rim again.. He gestures for her to join him and hands her the tea.

"Oh this is good. I haven't had a decent cuppa since I got here. They do coffee beautifully, though."

"You've only been in town one day."

"Long enough."

They sit in silence for a while as the Terrace becomes more populated. Tourists, nannies with their charges, students, vagrants, a guy on a unicycle. In moments like these he can briefly pretend that the bustling crowds are London crowds. This city is the closest he's come to feeling at all at home, but it remains foreign and just out of reach.

"How long are you in town?"

"Not sure really, at least a month."

He looks at her sharply. She has tears in her eyes.

""Molly?"

She looks away and shakes her head, starts rummaging in her bag for a tissue.

"Molly, tell me what's wrong."

She looks at him, and he is shocked to see that there is as much anger as sadness in her eyes.

"It was just so exhausting. The lying. To their faces, Sherlock. I would go round to see Mrs. Hudson for a while to keep her company, but I just couldn't keep it up. I avoided John altogether. I know he thinks it's because I blame him for your death somehow. But the worst is Greg. I can't avoid him, not since he's been reinstated. The bodies come in and he sometimes comes in to look at them and he's got the look of a dad who couldn't save his son. And one day after he'd gone I put the body we were looking at away, cleaned out my desk and my locker and told my boss I was going on sabbatical. Immediately. I already had this conference booked and up until that moment I thought a few days away would be all I needed. But I just couldn't look at Greg and lie to him again. I was saving for a down payment on a house but that just doesn't seem important anymore so I'm doing the thing all the white girls do in the books and romantic comedies and wandering around until I figure it out." She laughs at this bit of self deprecation and blows her nose.

"Where are you staying?"

"I'm subletting a studio in the Meatpacking District. It's a friend from uni's place. She's leaving for some heavy duty yoga retreat. I move in Monday."

"And until then, the Marriott in Times Square."

"Don't give me those judgy eyes, Sherlock Holmes. It's where the conference is and I got a deal."

"Who's keeping that cat while you're away?"

"That cat is named Toby, and do not pretend that you don't adore him. He's actually staying with Mrs. Hudson. She likes cats and said she'd like the company."

Sherlock nods. He has always wondered by Mrs. Hudson didn't keep a cat. She was certainly the type.

Molly wipes her eyes and gestures to the fountain behind them. "So, tell me about this. I didn't have a chance to look it up."

He rattles off the information from his guidebook. "We're in Bethesda Terrace, and this statue is called Angel of the Waters. It depicts an angel blessing the pool of Bethesda, giving it healing powers. Only statue in the park that is commissioned. The sculptor was a woman, the first one in New York to be given a public art commission in the city. The whole Terrace went through a period of disrepair in the sixties, when it was mostly used by junkies and their dealers."

Molly takes a camera from her bag and snaps a photo of the statue from where they sit, an upward angle that puts the statue in silhouette against the sky, her wings spread.

After she takes the photo, the camera makes a sound he hasn't heard in years: The whir of film advancing.

"Is that a 35mm camera?"

"Yes. I want to mostly use real film. I was looking at some old vacation photos before I left, and I like how they're imperfect and the colors are so warm and they're not always in focus."

"You know that you can add all of that later, with a computer, and still get the exact shot you want."

"What's the fun in that? I decided that surprises are better than perfect shots."

"But that camera looks like a toy. Are you sure it even works?"

"It basically _is_ a toy, it was mine when I was in primary. And yes, I tested it out before I left."

She digs in her bag again and produces an envelope of snapshots. She hands them to Sherlock. He expects to rifle through them quickly, but he is mesmerized after the first one. They are shots of London. A few touristy ones, but mostly just shots around Baker Street and around Bart's. Some have streaks down them from where light had leaked into the camera. Some aren't fully exposed or are partial double exposures because the film hadn't advanced completely. They all have the ultra-saturated color that he associates with childhood photos, despite the fact that she had used premium film and paper. A lump forms in his throat. He gets to the final one. It is the sidewalk in front of Bart's. The place where he landed. There are flowers and candles, and dozens of flyers and handwritten signs that say one of two phrases. "I Believe In Sherlock Holmes" or "Moriarty was Real."

He swallows hard and hands the stack of photos back.

"No, I got two sets. These are for you. I took them after I got your message."

"Thank you," he says. He replaces them in the envelope and tucks it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

"And look here," she says.

She gets out her phone and shows him the screen, scrolling through dozens more instances of these same phrases, in many different parts of London. Some are just scrawled quickly, others are pure art. He recognizes one piece that is undeniably the work of Raz, and it appears to be on the front wall of New Scotland Yard. That cheeky bastard.

"Did Mycroft not tell you about any of this?"

"No," he says. "And I try not to ask. About anything."


	3. The Diner On the Corner

They sit in companionable silence and she watches him watch the crowd. He is different. It isn't just the hair, though that was a shocking change. In addition to having dyed it red, he's cut it shorter and grown out his sideburns. The color suits him beautifully. It makes his eyes look more green than blue and brings out a soft flush in his cheeks.

He's dressed shabbier than he did in London, though she can tell the individual things he wears are expensive and tailored for him. He's wearing dark jeans with a thin turn up, a grey blazer with a light blue hooded shirt underneath, and a navy military style cap. He's lost weight. He looks about twenty five.

His eyes scan the crowd relentlessly, as always, but there is a heaviness to his eyes that wasn't there before. He was always a serious man but he'd never had so much gravity. And there had always been something childlike even in his glee about darker things. His face reminds her of a friend from school who had gone off in the first wave of kids fighting in Iraq. How his face had looked when he'd come home for the first time.

He finishes off his tea and stands up. "We need to get out of the park. I need a cigarette." He starts striding back toward the lower Terrace. He is putting a fifty dollar bill in the opera singer's hat by the time she shoulders her bag, puts her hat on and catches up to him.

"Why do we have to leave the park for you to have a cigarette?"

"You can't smoke in Central Park."

"You-what?"

"Smoking is prohibited in Central Park."

"But it's _outside_."

"I don't make the rules. I just grudgingly abide by them as police attention is low on my list of fun activities."

"Wait, you're smoking again?"

"Glad you've caught up."

"Sherlock," she said, touching his arm to stop him. She had forgotten how hard it is to keep up with him when he's walking. His strides are so long. She doesn't know how John ever kept up.

"Are we going to talk about how I was doing so well? Be grateful. There are a lot of other things I can find without having to leave my building."

"Sherlock don't do that."

"Do what?"

"You're basically saying to me 'at least it's not a needle' and that's not fair."

"It may not be fair, but it's true." He starts walking again, certain of where he's going, of course.

"Okay. I won't bother you about them. I know it's been hard," she says, thinking immediately what a trite thing that is to say. The noise of the Terrace fades away as they go down a path that gives the illusion of being in the middle of a forest. Other than the occasional jogger, they are alone.

They walk in silence.

Within ten minutes the city noise invades again and they walk out of the park at 5th Avenue and 79th Street. He lights up as soon as they hit the pavement and walks straight up 79th.

"Where are we going?"

"Lexington and 83rd. I want a milkshake. We should be at our destination by the time I finish this."

For his part he does slow down a little bit. He doesn't match her pace, but it does allow her to walk and talk without gasping for breath. She's not sure if it's to accomodate her or so that he can savor his cigarette.

He turns them left on Lexington, steering her with a touch to the elbow. She loses him in the crowd for a moment but he comes back for her, taking her hand to prevent another separation. So this is what this feels like. She knows it's nothing more than a practical gesture for him, but the realness of it, this further evidence that he is really alive (she'd doubted it more than once in the three months since she signed his death certificate) is enough to make her eyes sting again. She blinks rapidly and shakes her head.

When they get to 83rd he stops in front of a corner store and gets rid of his cigarette end. The building's sign simply says Luncheonette. Over the door, it reads Soda Candy. They go in, and Molly smiles. It's straight out of a 1950s movie. It hasn't been decorated to look that way; it just still is that way. The diner is long and narrow, with a counter on one side and a row of booths crammed along the wall. Everything is red and green and wood tone and chrome and there are dozens of signed photos of celebrities on the wall. It's bustling with an early lunch crowd, but they find two stools at the counter.

When their waitress brings their menus, Sherlock gives her his best "normal person" smile and says they'll need a couple of minutes.

"Don't bother with the menu unless you're really hungry. I suggest a milkshake or a malt."

"Sherlock, these milkshakes are eight dollars."

"The exchange rate is in your favor, and they're delicious."

"Okay, I'll trust you." When the waitress returns Molly orders a chocolate malt and Sherlock a strawberry milkshake. He sits fiddling with the salt and pepper shakers while she watches their shakes being made. Suddenly he spins on his stool to face her.

"What did you mean, about Lestrade?"

"What?"

"You said that he looks like a father who couldn't save his son. What did you mean?"

"Sherlock, you have to know what you meant to him. Even you have to know."

"I was useful to him, yes. Indispensable actually."

She can't say anything at first. How can this brilliant man be so bloody stupid?

"Sherlock, he loves you. You're not just useful to him. He-he _loves_ you. And he's always thought that you have so much potential, not just with your mind, but as a person. And he thinks he failed you."

"He was just doing his job. They all were. They're good cops and Moriarty counted on that."

And what is there to say, after that?

Their shakes come in enormous glasses along with the stainless steel mixing cups, which hold what wouldn't fit in the glasses. Molly takes a sip of her malt. It is, indeed, delicious.

"I don't know if it's worth 8 dollars but it's pretty fucking good." He shrugs, not getting the reference, and offers her a sip of his. "That one might be worth 8 dollars," she says.

They finish their shakes, and Molly orders coffee to warm herself up. The lunch crowd has thinned out and they're left with only the sound of a lone burger being cooked on the griddle, and Richie Valens on the jukebox.

They part outside the restaurant. He lets her hug him again before lighting another cigarette.

"You know where to find me," she says, as she backs away a few steps.

"Yes," he says. "I'll see you later, Molly."

She is waiting on the subway platform before she realizes that she doesn't know where to find him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The diner on the corner of 83rd and Lex does exist, and the milkshakes are delicious. It's called Lexington Candy Shop or Lexington Luncheonette. It's been open since 1925 and is one of the oldest remaining lunch counters in New York. I don't remember if it actually does have a jukebox, but if not, forgive me and chalk it up to artistic license.


	4. Plus ça change

"The best thing, though, in that museum was that everything always stayed right where it was. Nobody'd move. You could go there a hundred thousand times, and that Eskimo would still be just finished catching those two fish, the birds would still be on their way south, the deers would still be drinking out of that water hole… Nobody'd be different. The only thing that would be different would be you. Not that you'd be so much older or anything. It wouldn't be that exactly. You'd just be different, that's all. You'd have an overcoat on this time. Or that kid that was your partner in line last time had got scarlet fever and you'd have a new partner. Or you'd have a substitute taking the class, instead of Miss Aigletinger. Or you'd heard your mother and father having a terrific fight in the bathroom. Or you'd just passed by one of those puddles in the street with gasoline rainbows in them. I mean you'd be different in some way – I can't explain what I mean. And even if I could, I'm not sure I'd feel like it." The Catcher in the Rye—J.D. Salinger

Two days after meeting with Sherlock, Molly is staring into the frankly enormous fridge of her sublet flat, wondering how in the world she is supposed to fill it. Is she supposed to fill it? Or is it cool to just have a few apples and some bottled water in there because you eat out all the time. She can't afford to eat out all the time so she will have to go shopping.

But really, you could fit at least two corpses in this thing, standing up. Four if you put them in the fetal position. And that wasn't counting the freezer drawer.

She laughs at her joke and then sighs, thinking that the only other person she knows who might appreciate it is lost somewhere in that jungle of eight million people. If he is in Manhattan he cannot be more than thirteen miles away from her. Less considering she's three miles from the southernmost tip of the island. But he could have gone by now, and all she would have to show for their meeting is a sugar crash and lungs full of secondhand smoke.

But that isn't really true, is it?

She'd had him to herself for a little over an hour. Or as much as anyone can ever have him. She doesn't think he ever fully leaves that head of his. The people around him are never more than tabs open in the browser while he runs complex operations in the background.

And as much as he'd been different, she had been different around him. She had been able to look him in the eye and meet him as an equal. She hadn't allowed him to be dismissive. She had challenged him. After all, he was the one who had asked to see her. That night in the lab, when he had confessed that the needed her had been the beginning in the shift in their dynamic. The three months she spent without him had strengthened it. And there was that whole saving his life thing.

Of course, there was still that achy fluttering in her chest, the knot in her belly and the not so fluttery ache in her groin. Her physical response to him has always been so intense that sometimes she's afraid he can smell it on her. She had been foolish enough to think that being away from him for three months would lessen that intensity. But sitting next to him, watching his long slender fingers hold his cigarette, his mouth around his straw, hearing his voice again, its timbre raising the hair on her arms, made her very palms ache with need.

She closes the fridge's double doors and leans her forehead against its cool metal surface.

"Please, just let me hear from you one more time."

She opens the refrigerator again. "What do I fill you with?" she says to no one.

She shuts it again.

"Fuck it," she says. She opens her laptop and logs into Seamless.

An hour later she is shoving lo mein into her face while watching a reality show about a hair salon in New Jersey when the buzzer rings. She ignores it at first. She's only been here a day, but it's gone off several times. It was always either someone pressing the wrong apartment, or a friend of Emma (not so great a friend if she didn't tell them she was leaving) or someone needing to get in because they don't have their front door key.

It keeps ringing this time, so she pauses the show and goes to the intercom, carton of takeaway still in hand.

"Yes, what is it?"

"A month may seem like a long time, but it will go by all too quickly. I don't think you're going to find yourself by holing up in your flat watching telly."

"Sherlock?"

"Who else would it be? Buzz me in."

Molly presses the buzzer and looks around. Of course the place is clean. It was spotless when she moved in and she only brought one suitcase. She, however, somehow never managed to change out of her pyjamas today.

"Whatever," she mutters. She unlocks the various locks on the door and cracks it, then sits back down on the sofa with her food. She should be ecstatic that her wish has been granted, but instead she is irritated. Because of course he would just show up, and of course he would find her moping in her pyjamas at three in the afternoon.

He walks in a few minutes later. "Oh it's worse than I thought," he says, after surveying the scene.

"What?" she says, not taking her eyes off the telly though she's dying, absolutely dying to look at him and what he's wearing today and how his hair looks. "Flat not good enough?"

"No, the flat is extraordinary," he says, looking out the picture window with its view of the Empire State Building. "I knew you'd be here, doing basically the same thing you'd be doing in London. I just thought you'd at least have showered."

She almost throws the carton of food at him, but decides she doesn't want to risk getting anything on the rug or the walls. She wouldn't have minded ruining that sage green plaid shirt that he looks absolutely brilliant in, however. He would roll the sleeves up just so, wouldn't he?

"What do you want, then?"

"I'm bored—"

"Of course, why else track me down?"

"As I was saying, I'm bored, and I thought you might need a bit of gentle nudge to get you to actually explore this city you're paying so much to live in."

"Well, what if I'm just exhausted from all the exploring I did yesterday?"

He raised an eyebrow.

"Okay. I'm just a little—intimidated."

"Molly, you live in a city almost exactly this size."

"I know, but I know it, and it's home. Everything is so fast here. Yesterday it was like I woke up, brought my things here, went to lunch with Emma before she left for the airport and then the next thing I knew it was midnight."

"Go shower and change. I'll wait." He sits on the sofa and picks up the remote, but doesn't change the telly.

"Where are you taking me?"

"Somewhere you should have already been."

Half an hour later they're crammed inside an uptown subway car. Molly is pressed against Sherlock, her nose practically in his chest. She's just a bit too short to hold onto the bars comfortably, so he holds the bar with one arm and has the other around her waist to steady her. Not that it would really be possible for her to fall with the car so crowded, but she isn't complaining.

She's also not complaining about the appraising and appreciative looks that Sherlock is getting from several people in the car. Nor is she complaining about the downright envious looks that a few are giving her. So this is what this feels like.

"So how do you afford it?" he asks.

"What?"

"That flat. It's quite small but in a good location. Prime view, new building."

"Oh, well, my friend. I've known her for ages and I helped her out a lot in school. Gave me a friend discount I suppose. Plus, well, she doesn't pay the rent, her ex-husband does."

"I thought alimony was rare these days?"

"She had a really good attorney, and he was a cheater. You probably figured all that out just looking at the flat, though."

"Only that she hasn't lived there long and is newly single."

"Are you losing your touch?"

"No, I was mostly focused on you."

"Oh." She knows this is not necessarily a good thing and steels herself for the upcoming litany of her faults, but they are at their stop. She's grateful to avoid his deductions (and to get off this damned train which never runs express and is one of the few downsides to her location) but sad to remove herself from such close proximity.

They emerge near 81st street and he leads her around to the main entrance of the American Museum of Natural History. He pays for their admission (the suggested donation and a little extra even though the museum closes in an hour) and she follows him through the massive grand hall and into a dimly lit hall full of dioramas of animals in their natural habitats. He stops and lets her lead, hands behind his back, watching her as she goes to each display. She is fascinated. The taxidermied animals are in beautiful condition and posed as if they were photographed by a naturalist. They are all native to North America, so there are many she has only seen in movies and photos, such as buffalo and elk. She gets chills pondering the size of the buffalo and picturing what the herds must have looked like.

She gets as close to the glass as she can, taking in every detail of fur and hoof and horn and the stunning landscape paintings that serve as backgrounds. The displays are like life sized versions of the Viewfinder slides she spent hours staring at as a child.

There are a lot of children in the hall, and their laughter echoes off of the walls and high ceiling. It is a comforting sound, reminding her of school field trips. She turns away from the exhibits and watches other people look at the exhibits, animated silhouettes against the bright serenity of the scenes behind the glass.

When she gets to the last one, he asks her quietly if she'd like to see anything else. The announcement had just gone overhead that the museum would close in fifteen minutes.

"No, not today. This is enough."

"Good," he says "And now that you're out, there's no sense trekking all the way back downtown yet. Would you like to see my flat?"

"Oh," she says. She still feels slightly dreamy and it takes her a moment to comprehend. "Sure. You're in Harlem, right?"

"Yes. And we're taking a taxi."


	5. Shepherds From the Sheep

Molly has sat with Sherlock in a London cab on more than one occasion, and despite the difference in the model and color of the car, this is not much different. (Though she still can't get used to careening around on the wrong side of the road.) He stares out the window, sometimes up at the buildings but often at everything at street level.

"Why did you take me there?"

"Did it not help?"

"Yes, it did. I mean—"

"You were frustrated with the pace of the city, and I find it to be a useful way to slow things down."

"Thank you."

He smiles briefly and continues to look out the window. "How far uptown have you been?"

"As far uptown as we are right now." She looks out the window. They've just passed 96th.

"I'm about twenty blocks north of Columbia University, in an area called Hamilton Heights. The person I'm subleasing from is a student at City College. He's gone home to Lagos for a few months to visit family. I think the actual lease is in his cousin's name, but I didn't ask too many questions. I can move with an hour's notice if the cousin returns, so I'm not worried."

Sherlock instructs the cab to stop at the corner of 137th and Broadway. They get out and Sherlock ducks inside a deli. He stalks down the center aisle and selects two boxes of tea, one Earl Grey and one Darjeeling. He continues to the cooler in the back, talking at her as he goes.

"This one's my favorite of the three closest ones. It's the busiest, frequented by long term neighborhood residents, unlike the one on the northeast corner, which was renovated when the new owners took over. According to the locals, prices went up exponentially, meaning the only people who can afford to shop there are the newer, mostly white, mostly upper middle class residents. Not even the artists and actors who moved here for cheaper rents can afford some of the new restaurants and shops." He chooses a quart of whole milk and two bottled sodas, carrying everything easily without a basket or bag. "I've been in there once. Mostly organics and whole foods. Great if you have the time and inclination to cook. Not really my area."

Molly follows him to the front of the store where he gazes into the deli case. "Two of the beef patties, Romero. Spicy for the lady." He turns his head and gives Molly a quick smile, daring her to protest.

"Is this your idea of a date?" say Romero, a tall man with long greying dreadlocks and freckles splashed across his light brown skin. "You should take her to a sit down place. Real silverware and napkins. Place down the street has the best jerk chicken in Harlem." He pushes the black plastic bag across the counter and gives Sherlock his change.

Molly looks at Sherlock then smiles at Romero. "It's okay. I prefer takeaway." It's true. She's always preferred getting takeaway to going out, even when she's actually dating someone. She likes being able to relax, sit on the floor or curl up on the sofa.

Sherlock says goodbye and they leave, crossing 137th and heading north. Halfway up the block, Sherlock stops in front of a heavy steel and glass door and takes out his keys. He curses mildly as he jiggles the key in the lock.

"It would take less time to pick it, but that might draw undue attention," he said as he finally gets the door open and holds it open for her. She ducks under his arm into the foyer. It's flanked by a grid of mailboxes on each side, with a high arched ceiling and marble flooring. Sherlock doesn't stop for his mail, heading straight for the staircase at the other end of the foyer.

"What floor are you on?" she asks as they start climbing. The bannister is smooth from age and thousands of hands, and feels warm to the touch as she runs her hand over it. The marble stairs are all worn in their centers, but everything is as clean as it can be in a city such as this.

"Fifth," he says. He takes the steps two at a time, quickly outpacing her. She wonders if he wants to make sure he gets rid of his dirty underthings before she sees them, and this makes her giggle. He stops on a landing and looks down at her, eyebrow raised. She shrugs and trudges up after him.

Molly doesn't own a car, and though she lives close to a Tube stop she does a lot of walking in London. However, she's still winded when she finally reaches the fifth floor. He's left the door to his apartment open. It opens onto a narrow corridor with three doors on the left side (kitchen, bedroom, bath) and a larger room at the end (living room.)Sherlock is putting away the tea and milk in the kitchen and tells her to have a seat. The living room is large and airy, with high ceilings trimmed with gorgeous crown molding. The two ceiling height windows look out onto Broadway and a small park across the street. The hardwood floors are worn and scuffed but still gorgeous. The apartment is probably twice the size of hers and she imagines he pays half the rent.

The furniture is sparse and makeshift, typical of a student, but he's already made his mark. There are files and papers and half empty mugs of tea everywhere. Stacks of books and what might be experiments sit on the radiator between the windows, making her hope that the landlord hasn't turned the heat on yet.

Sherlock joins her in the living room and turns on the lamp.

"I hadn't noticed it'd gotten so dark," she says, then shakes her head. He doesn't care. She steels herself for a biting remark and looks at him sharply when it doesn't come. He's busy setting out food on the coffee table.

"Ginger beer or orange?" he asks, gesturing to the sodas.

"Erm, orange. Are those meat pies or what?"

"Basically," he says. "But better. They're Jamaican."

"How'd you know I'd want a spicy one?"

He stops with his food halfway to his mouth. "How long have we known each other?"

"Right," she says and takes a bite. "Oh holy fuck this is good."

He's about to answer, probably to tell her that of course it's good, but the buzzer interrupts. He is immediately wary, his attitude changing from almost relaxed to tautly strung in an instant. He gets up and strides down the hall to answer.

"Yes?" he says, in an American accent.

"Delivery for Sheridan Keene."

"Who's the sender?" Sherlock barks into the intercom.

"No return address, sir."

"You'll need to bring it up. I'm indisposed and can't manage the stairs."

A heavy sigh comes through the speaker.

"I'll tip you well," Sherlock says.

"Be right up, sir."

Sherlock bounds down the hall to Molly and pulls her to the kitchen. He produces a baseball bat from the space between the refrigerator and the wall. "Stay here until I call for you. Hopefully you won't have to use this, but hold onto it just in case." He runs back out and she peeks out after him. He stands looking out the peephole, entire body tensed. Molly wonders if, under his flannel shirt, he would feel as hard and smooth as warm, worn wood, then shakes her head, unable to believe that she can think these thoughts when Sherlock is obviously certain that they're in danger.

There's a knock on the door and Molly ducks back into the kitchen. She hears the door open, then a brief cry from the messenger followed by the sounds of a struggle.

"Molly!" Sherlock calls and she comes out to find him holding a skinny blonde kid in bicycle gear from behind, arms locked behind his back. "Take his bag and search it for weapons," he says.

She hurries toward them and pats the kid down. "Molly, I don't think there's room to hide a much under that lycra."

"Just being thorough," she mutters, and dumps out the kid's messenger bag. Other than his wallet, nothing but small packages, letters, a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and a few baggies of marijuana. She shoves it all back except the letter marked with Sherlock's alias and stands up.

"Give me his ID," Sherlock says to her. She retrieves the wallet and hands the ID to Sherlock.

"Dylan Wakowski. You work for a service so I take it you have no interaction with your clients?"

"None, sir," the kid says, his voice squeaky.

"I'm going to let you go, and I'm going to give you five hundred dollars and you're going to forget my name and this address, understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"And I want you to understand that I've memorized every piece of information on your ID card, including the ID number, so it doesn't matter if you move. I'm also incredibly good at finding people who don't want to be found. This is much bigger than anything you ever want to be caught up in, and I'd rather not have the hassle of finding another flat just yet."

"Yes sir."

Sherlock releases the boy and gestures to Molly to give him back his bag. She hands it over with what she hopes is an apologetic smile and the boy rushes out the door. She can hear him on the stairs; it sounds like he's taking each flight in two to three leaps. Shaking, she hands the letter to Sherlock and slides down the wall. She registers the sound of his opening the envelope over the rush of blood in her ears.

He takes off to the living room again after reading it, and she follows.

"Where are you going?" he asks when she picks up her bag.

"I—I have to go. I need to go home."

"You can't leave," he says, closing the distance between them and taking her gently by the wrist. The smell of his sweat with his cologne underneath is making her heart race even faster than what just transpired.

Molly knows that his line of work often requires him to defend himself and throws him into violent situations. She's seen the cuts and bruises, she's heard the stories. But she's never witnessed it. And it scared her.

It wasn't just cold, flinty look in his eyes or the gravel in his voice, either.

It was the fact that it excited her. And that she's never wanted him more than right now.

"No, I do. Thank you for dinner and for the museum—I need to go."

"You can't."

She looks up at him. His eyes are wide and glassy, and he looks about fifteen years younger. She's only seen him look like this once before, in a dark lab, three months ago.

"You're scared, Sherlock. What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he says, releasing her and going to the window. "This letter, it's ostensibly a request for my services, says they were referred by an 'old friend.' Until I know whether or not it's legitimate or a threat, I don't think it's safe for you to be alone."


	6. Top of the List

She is in his bedroom. She's wearing his clothes. An NYU t-shirt and Adidas track bottoms that are so long on her that she had to roll them up to keep from tripping. If he pauses his typing and sits very still, he can just hear her breathing under the footfalls and voices coming from throughout the building and the late night traffic sounds coming from outside. He wouldn't be able to hear her if she weren't congested. She wouldn't be congested if she hadn't been crying. She wouldn't have been crying if it weren't for him.

When he'd found out she would be in the city, he told himself to ignore it. Then he told himself it would be alright to lurk in the back of the conference room when she presented her paper. Then he told himself it would be better to meet her, just once, in the most public place possible.

Then he found himself on a downtown train.

He had chalked it up to loneliness, to wanting any connection possible to London and his former life.

Then she'd been standing in the doorway, drowning in his clothes, holding his spare toothbrush, and she had asked him why he was being so nice to her.

"You think that my protecting you from possible danger that's a direct result of my actions and your association with me qualifies as being 'nice.' I admit I haven't always been gentle with your feelings but-"

"Not that. Earlier. Coming to get me, taking me to the museum, buying me food. Even the other day at the park and the diner."

He looked down at his laptop. "You saved my life."

"Oh. Okay," she said, and turned to go into his room.

"Leave the door open."

"What?"

"So I can hear. That window doesn't have any bars, and while it's five floors up and looks over an air shaft, I've had experience with assassins who can climb walls."

"Okay."

He'd known it wasn't what she wanted to hear, gratitude for her role in saving his life. That his being courteous could only be gained through such extremes. As he'd listened to her trying to stifle her sobs in his pillow, he experienced regret over not having told her the simple truth; she is his friend.

He shakes his head now and goes back to his search. Far more important to make sure that his giving into his impulse to see her hasn't resulted in her becoming more involved than she already is.

The letter had been sparse in detail, a request to meet with a Cecily Forrester at Soho House the following afternoon to "discuss a matter that requires the utmost discretion." However, the Internet had been rife with details about this Miss Forrester. He vaguely remembered her name from the society pages he'd reluctantly perused while researching the city. The daughter of a Broadway producer and a philanthropist, Cecily seemed to be making a name for herself following in her mother's charitable footsteps, but made frequent appearances in the more salacious sections of the local dailies. He'd skimmed past photos of her at club openings and first nights and charity galas and searched exclusively for any connection either of her parents might have with his enemies.

Having found nothing alarming, he sits back to ponder the second part of the problem. If Miss Forrester really had been referred to him by someone he knows, or at least knows about him, who was it? Someone other than Mycroft and Molly knows that he's alive, and knows exactly where to find him. Even Molly didn't know his exact address until this evening. While he'd been immediately tempted to put Molly on a plane to London (still should) and flee the city himself, the part of him that can't resist a puzzle absolutely cannot leave until he uncovers who referred him and how they knew. Not to mention that if they found him once, they can find him again, and he can't guarantee they won't or haven't told anyone else. Cecily Forrester is the key.

As for Molly, obviously he should keep an eye on her until her safety is insured. She might also be an asset during his meeting with Miss Forrester.

Having determined his course of action, he decides to eat and catch a few hours of sleep. Molly had ended up eating his dinner as well of hers, the burst of adrenaline having left her ravenous. He often had the same reaction, but if he were still in the middle of a case, or in this instance, at the beginning, he never stopped. He takes the time now, though, because he's going to sleep anyway, and he doesn't know exactly how involving this case will be. It may be his last opportunity to recharge for days.

He goes into the kitchen and rummages around in the fridge. Milk, eggs, jam, week old pad thai, soy sauce, ketchup.

"I'll make some eggy bead if you want. I saw you had the things for it when I made my tea."

He straightens and turns around. She's standing in the doorway, eyes only slightly puffy.

"You don't have to," he says. Then his stomach growls.

She smiles and shoos him out of the way of the fridge. "I'd say your transport says otherwise."

He sits at the tiny table and opens the window. He lights a cigarette and blows the smoke out into the air shaft. He counts the lights still on in other windows and watches the shadows moving. Salsa music pours out from a window two floors below and the smell of plantains frying drifts up from another.

Molly is as efficient and methodical in her cooking as she is in her work, even with something as simple as eggy bread. She lays out everything she needs first, measures precisely, and even pulls her hair back into a ponytail before getting started. He gets an odd thrill watching her neatly crack the eggs into the bowl.

"I'm sure you've noticed that you can hear almost everything in the apartment below through the pipes in your room," she remarks while whisking the eggs and milk. The movement makes it incredibly clear that she's not wearing a bra under his shirt.

He clears his throat. "Is that what woke you? What was it this time, fucking or fighting?"

She stops whisking and looks at him, a blush creeping across her cheeks. "Er, it was hard to tell but probably the latter."

She pulls pieces of bread out of the bag and inspects them closely for signs of mold or rodents before dipping them into the egg mixture.

"I'm surprised you don't have a gun," she continues. "Since it's so much easier to get them here."

"I do. I just didn't feel the need to scare the kid that much. And I never found it particularly hard to find them in England."

"Oh." She flips the bread on the griddle with a fork. "Do you want tea?"

"Only if I have some chamomile floating around. I'm going to attempt to get some sleep."

She looks in the cupboard and gets out a box of herbal teas. "I'll take the futon then. I don't want to kick you out of your bed."

"Who said anything about kicking me out of my bed? I planned to sleep there."

"What?" she says, nearly dropping the kettle into the sink.

"Molly, while I've slept on far worse surfaces than that futon over the last few months, I would hardly call it pleasant. There's no reason for either of us to suffer back problems just because of some silly societal norms. But if it bothers you that much, you can sleep under the sheet and I'll sleep on top."


	7. Uptown Girl

Molly Hooper is just under five foot three inches tall and at this moment weighs approximately one hundred and eighteen pounds, yet somehow takes up three quarters of Sherlock's queen sized bed. He wakes up on the very edge of the bed with her arm thrown casually over his face and one leg stretched over both of his. He moves her arm and she flops it onto his chest. She's lying on her back, breathing through her mouth and splayed out like a starfish. Obviously she's used to sleeping alone, but he is, too. So how did she manage to gain control of so much territory without his protesting? Without his even noticing until he almost fell off the bed? Last night she had dived between the sheets and huddled as close to the wall as she could get.

At some point she had kicked the sheet and her blanket to the end of the bed and had taken off the track bottoms. He thought that most women ran cold while sleeping, but it looks like Molly gets warm. So she kicks off her clothes and spreads her body out in a subconscious attempt to regulate her temperature. He's thankful that she didn't remove her shirt in her sleep as well. As it is, the sight of her smooth, bare thighs and the position they are in are not helping the unfortunate state of morning arousal he's found himself in.

He hobbles to the bathroom and contemplates his options while executing the acrobatics required to urinate in this condition. He shouldn't be surprised. He treated his body relatively nicely last night by feeding it and letting it rest so naturally it would behave in a somewhat normal manner during the night. It's a rare occurrence, which he usually ignores until it goes away. It usually doesn't take long, especially after he's urinated. So he'll just wait it out. He looks in the mirror, once again acclimatizing himself to his shorter, lighter hair. He wonders when he'll finally get used to it.

There's a knock on the door. "Sherlock? You in there?"

"Hell," he mutters.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, just getting in the shower. Do you need in here first?" _Don't say yes, don't say yes, don't say yes._

"Oh, no. I'll be fine. I mean you're not shaving your legs or anything, right?" She giggles at her own joke.

"Nope, out in a few!"

"Do you want anything to eat?"

"Still full from last night,thanks!"

Moments later he hears her opening cupboards and filling the kettle, so he turns on the shower. He has about five good minutes of hot water and another three of tepid before it goes to all cold. He stands under the stream without moving and lets his mind run over the events of yesterday, looking for anything he might have missed in his assessment. He reviews the faces of everyone he interacted with or noticed. He replays every conversation. He assesses the shape and density of Molly Hooper's breasts based on the way they moved untethered under his shirt. _Dammit. Stop it. Where the hell did that even come from?_

He grabs his shampoo and lets the strong, masculine scent eradicate the smell of her hair, which had permeated his pillow. He ticks off mundane facts in his head and slowly regains control over his body. _If only I'd never…no, don't even think about that. Those memories will only make it worse._

Sherlock steps out of the shower right as the water turns from warmish to frigid. He reaches for his dressing gown. It's not there. It's in his bedroom, where he left it yesterday. There are no towels, either because those are all in a laundry bag in the hallway.

If he'd been at Baker Street he would have walked out naked, whether John were home or not. But he's not at Baker Street. John had become so accustomed to Sherlock's nudity that it barely elicited an eye roll unless John had company. Sherlock imagines Molly's reaction would be quite different.

"Molly!" he calls through a crack in the door. She comes out of the kitchen, carrying a mug of tea. "Will you fetch my dressing gown from my room? On the bedpost."

She returns a few seconds later and hands him the robe through the narrow space. He puts it on and steps out, chin high, back straight. He nods at her and retrieves a towel from his laundry bag, then retreats to his room to dress.

He pulls on a pair of grey pinstripe trousers and a Pixies t-shirt, and selects a burgundy cardigan with elbow patches from his closet.

"Sherlock," she says from outside his door. "Would you mind telling me the plan for the day?"

"We're meeting with a socialite called Cecily Forrester at Soho House at two. It's within walking distance of your flat. I imagine you'll want to shower and change and eat lunch so we'd better get moving soon." He exits his room and goes into the living room to pack his bag, actively pining for his coat and its roomy pockets as he does so.

Molly hurries into the bedroom and puts on her clothes from yesterday. "Can we take a cab? I'll pay, I really don't want to deal with the crush of humanity until I'm feeling human again."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They get to the Soho House well before his potential client and are led to the Drawing Room a large tin ceilinged room full of an eclectic array of sofas and chairs. They're seated in a quiet corner to await their hostess. Molly is struck with how Sherlock seems immediately at home in these surroundings, while she feels as though she's going to get kicked out at any moment. Sherlock had told her that this club was a bit more relaxed than other social clubs, being mostly for those in the entertainment industry. He'd seemed positively offended when he told her their dress code excluded suits. While she doesn't feel she would be asked to leave based on how she is dressed, she feels that someone will tell her to get out because she isn't cool enough.

A few minutes later a tall, stunningly gorgeous girl in her very early twenties walks in and is ushered to their corner. She is dressed simply, in dark jeans, tall brown leather boots and an oversized off the shoulder sweater. Molly is certain that everything she is wearing, excluding the handbag, might cost more than a month's rent. The handbag would probably cost two. She has hair like Kate Middleton: long, dark brown and curled just so at the ends. She's the kind of girl that always looks like she's just stepped out of the salon, even when she's coming home from the gym. She is the kind of girl that completely intimidates Molly Hooper, even though Molly is at least a decade older.

Then the girl gives them a warm, welcoming, incredibly bright and straight smile and extends her hand.

"Cecily Forrester. Call me Cici if you want. I'm so sorry I'm late. I underestimated my travel time a little." She shakes Sherlock's hand, then turns to Molly with the same warm smile. "And you're his assistant?" Her voice is low and slightly husky.

"Molly," she says and shakes the girl's hand. It's a firm one, but not too overpowering. Her eyes are a rich brown, surrounded by mile long eyelashes.

Sherlock gets right to business. "Why did you have us meet you all the way downtown when you live and go to school so close to my apartment? You've clearly already eaten lunch and you have a four o'clock class."

The girl shows no surprise at Sherlock's knowledge of her address and schedule. In fact, she looks pleased.

"I chose the club because it's discreet and I didn't want to risk any paps today."

Sherlock is a little taken aback. Molly can tell by slight purse to his lips. He had been attempting to unsettle her. He recovers quickly, though.

"Surely, Miss Forester, you're able to avoid being photographed when you don't want to be. I'm pretty sure I also recall that you're not averse to being photographed when the timing is right. Page Six last week?"

"Look," she says. "I do try to cultivate a decent quid pro quo relationship with those vultures. I never asked for their attention, they just started showing up right after my coming out party. I give them a mildly scandalous photo op every once in a while as long as they don't harass me at school. I also let them get me without makeup sometimes. But don't think for a second that they aren't taking photos of me constantly, waiting for me to slip up enough that the payday is worth killing the relationship. It's not about the pictures they take. They're taking them all the time. It's about the ones they delete."

"Oh come on, that's what it's all about though, isn't it? The attention, just enough scandal to keep them interested, then more and more scandal so they stay interested?"

"Oh, I see," she says, leaning back in the chair and smiling. "You think, 'American socialite, must be shallow, vapid and stupid.' Well, yeah, I'm shallow as hell when it comes to some things, but I am by no means vapid and certainly not stupid. I went to one of the finest high schools in this country and am attending the most prestigious school in this city and one of the 6 most prestigious in this country. It's like Eton and Oxford to you. So why don't you stop acting like you're the one interviewing me and let me decide if you're as good as Miss Reid said you are."

Molly is stunned. She has never seen anyone dress down Sherlock in such a manner before. Not DI Lestrade, not John, not even Mycroft Holmes. For a moment she is afraid he's just going to get up and leave, but of course he doesn't. He sits back in his chair as well and puts his hands under his chin.

"Yes, of course. Let's talk about this… Miss Reid, you said? Who is she and why would she recommend me to you for help?"

"Lerane Reid. She said you're old acquaintances. Hold on, she said if you didn't recognize the name to give you this message." Cecily pulls her phone from her bag and scrolls through her messages. "'Tell Mr. Keene that I am so sorry to have missed him in New York. Autumn is certainly beautiful there, but I prefer Paris. Tell him I wish we could have had dinner. That time in Pakistan was delicious.'"

Sherlock actually blushes at this last, just a bit, a flush in his cheeks.

"Of course. Miss 'Reid.' How could I forget. I take it you're a client?"

"Friend."

"Of course. Friend. What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into that you needed to go to that particular friend and were given my name?"

"I'm being blackmailed. She said you were just the man for the job."


	8. Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing

"Blackmail, of course," Sherlock smirks in a way that makes Molly inexplicably nervous. As if he is recalling something fondly. " She is correct in her recommendation. But you're going to have to give me more details."

For the first time since the meeting started, Cecily looks young and insecure. She looks down at her hands .

"There's a—a video," she says softly.

"Ah. An heiress and a sex tape. Haven't we seen this played out before. Many times before?"

Cecily looks up, eyes flashing. "Yes. But I don't want to be a model, or an actress or a night club opening hostess or whatever the fuck. I've got a year and a half of undergrad left and I killed the MCAT just taking it for practice. I'm applying to Johns Hopkins for medical school. No one would ever take me seriously as a student or a physician if this gets out. I'd be just another airhead heiress.

"So the video is with your boyfriend? Are you sure he's not the blackmailer?"

"No, it's not with my current boyfriend."

"Still, are you sure he's not the blackmailer?"

"Of course he's not. His family probably has better cash flow than mine. I've known him for ten years. He's completely trustworthy."

"Excellent. I'll still want to speak with him of course. Does he know about the video?"

"Yes, I told him. He'd need to be prepared for the worst and I needed someone to talk to. "

"You said it wasn't your current boyfriend. But it was a boyfriend. An ex?"

"An ex, yes. But not a boyfriend," she says, looking down at her hands again.

"Does the fact that your partner is a woman mean that the scandal would be greater?"

"In my family, no. Well, actually my Grandmother would shit bricks. But my parents know I'm bisexual. There have been some coded things in the press occasionally, but any girls I dated were officially just friends. Devon, my boyfriend, he knows. His family doesn't. They're quite a bit more conservative than mine, and we always figured there was no reason for them to know since I'm with him. "

"And the press and possible distributors would be much more interested in a girl on girl sex tape. But let's start from the beginning. When was the video made?"

"I started dating Alex right after high school. I took off a year before undergrad, teaching English in Prague. I met her there. She's from the west coast and was bumming around Europe until she decided what she wanted to do or whatever. Her dad produces movies and that's how we first connected."

"Neither of you are minors in the video?"

"Unfortunately, no. I already thought about that as a way out, its being unusable if we were minors. But we were definitely both eighteen and there's a time stamp on it to prove it."

"Were you both aware that the video was being made?"

She shifts uncomfortably.

"Miss Forester I cannot help you if you are not upfront with me."

Sensing that the girl is truly distressed, Molly moves to sit beside her on the sofa. She puts an arm around the younger woman, hopefully telegraphing to Sherlock with a look to back off for a moment.

"It's true, Cecily. He really needs to know everything. He'll be completely discreet and it's just about gathering the facts. He's not interested at all in the—other stuff."

Cecily gives Molly a grateful smile and continues, talking directly to Molly.

"She didn't know about it. I thought I was the only one who knew about it. I had a feeling she was getting restless. She stayed in Prague with me for six months, though she occasionally ran off to Amsterdam or Ibiza for long weekends. But I kind of felt like she was two steps away from saying goodbye. I guess I just wanted something to remember her by. I know it's fucking awful and I probably deserve for it to get out. But the thing is, she doesn't. She had no idea. And now she's working on building a non-profit to help girls in India go to school and it would just fuck all of that up so badly, too, if it got out. You know how people can be. No one would want her working with young girls."

Sherlock looks a bit impatient with the long exposition, but does perk up at the mention of the non-profit.

"Is her charity struggling for funding? And are you truly certain that she didn't know about the video? "

"I know what you're saying, Mr. Keene, but no, it's not her. She definitely doesn't know, and she definitely isn't blackmailing me. I've written her organization several checks from my trust as well as from my foundation."

"And her personal finances?"

"Rock solid as far as I know. But none of that matters."

"It doesn't?"

"No," Cecily says, leaning forward. "They didn't ask for money. They just said that they may need a favor here and there."

Sherlock is silent for a long time, staring off and processing the information. Molly orders tea and a full service is brought out, including cakes and sandwiches. Molly is a bit overwhelmed but Sherlock and Cecily are unfazed. They make small talk about the weather and what tourist attractions Molly has seen. Sherlock takes up his line of questioning again as soon as the server is out of earshot.

"So no one else knew about the video, to your knowledge. Where did you keep it?"

"On a flash drive, in a box full of mementoes from Prague."

"Is your staff trustworthy?"

Cecily nods her head. "Greta comes in once a week to clean. She's worked for my parents since I was a child."

"Do you have security cameras?"

"The building does, but I don't know when the video was taken. I hadn't looked in that box for years."

"What sort of charities does your foundation focus on?"

"Is that relevant?"

"I'm looking at all of the angles. Whenever people are oppressed, there are also people interested in keeping them that way."

"Domestically, I focus on girls in STEM fields, and internationally, education for girls in general. My mother is arts and arts education focused."

"Does your father have any pet projects? Or your boyfriend and his family?"

"My dad writes checks to wherever my mother says. Devon's dad is in real estate and has bought a lot of property in East Harlem and Bed-Stuy recently. He's trying to head off as much gentrification as possible by developing affordable housing. Devon's getting into publishing. Newspapers mostly."

"Hmm," Sherlock says and falls silent again. Molly realizes how avidly she's been watching the interaction. She's never seen him interview a client before. It's incredibly sexy; she can practically see the neurons firing.

"Well," Sherlock says finally. "What is 'Miss Reid' doing these days? I'm still curious how you made her acquaintance."

"She's a consultant."

"Isn't everyone these days? What kind of consultant?"

Cecily sighs. "She consults couples on safe BDSM practices."

Sherlock only smiles and Molly comes the closest she ever has to doing a spit take.

"And you sought out her services with your current boyfriend? Devon was it?"

"Yes. We were curious, but we decided it wasn't really our thing. I kept up correspondence with Miss Reid because she showed interest in one of my charities. And I thought of her immediately when I received the first screen shot from the video, because she told me once she'd been privy to a lot of scandal in her line of work."

Sherlock leans forward. "Has Miss Reid ever been in your home?"

"No," Cecily says. "You don't think—"

"I don't think anything, yet. Like I said, just looking at different angles. I'll need to do some research, talk to the people in your circle, so I'll need an in. Your mother is throwing a party tomorrow night, correct?"

"Yes, a fundraiser for the library."

"I'm sure you can get us on the list. And don't worry. I'll be so discreet you'll have forgotten why I'm supposed to be there by the end of the night."

"Of course. It's semiformal. If you have to purchase anything to wear you can expense it." She gets up and shakes their hands. "Thank you, Mr. Keene. If you don't mind, please wait five minutes after I leave before you go."

They watch her exit and Molly immediately turns to Sherlock.

"Who is Lerane Reid?" she asks.

"Oh, it's an anagram. Irene Adler."

"Isn't she dead? Does no one stay dead around here?"

"How did you know she was supposed to be dead?" Sherlock asked, his eyes sharp and fixed on her.

"Oh. Well, John told me. He said the witness protection thing was a lie your brother made up. That she'd been killed by extremists in Pakistan. I mean, you're supposed to be dead, I suppose John felt there was no use keeping it a secret anymore. I think he felt guilty about lying to you."

"As he should," Sherlock said, without a trace of irony. "No, Miss Adler is alive and apparently doing exceedingly well. Hold on a moment."

She waits while he taps out a text.

"Mycroft should know that he's got an information leak somewhere. Miss Adler must know what said leak likes. The problem is, how do I alert him to a mole without alerting him to who's getting the information? It's in my best interests that Mycroft continues to believe she's deceased."

"I suppose that's why you took the case."

"What?"

"Well, this is a pretty basic case. Despite the power players it's just a basic blackmail case. That would hardly rank more than what, a six? You'll have it solved in no time."

"You're right, I am taking it because of her involvement, but not for the reasons you're obviously thinking. Her involvement means there is a lot more to this case than simple blackmail. Either it's much bigger than a young girl's summer fling, or The Woman has something to gain. Probably both. I actually wouldn't put it past her to be the blackmailer. It's textbook for her."

They head outside, blinking in the sunlight, and Sherlock scans the road for cabs.

"Are you going to try to contact her?" Molly asks.

"Not at this moment. We've got more important things to consider."

"Like what?"

"What in the world are you going to wear tomorrow night?"

He hails a taxi and jumps in, waving goodbye as it pulls away. She shakes her head and walks the few blocks to her apartment.


	9. Yes to the Dress

-I hope you're awake. You're going shopping with 'CiCi'. Car will be there at noon. S—

-What? Why am I going with her? Are you coming with us?—

-Nope. Doing research, talking to her maid, trying to reach her ex girlfriend in India. Far too busy. And she may bond with you or whatever it is you do which might be useful. S—

-Why do I even have to go to this thing? It's your case.—

-When else are you going to get to experience a real live New York society charity function? Besides, I'll blend in better if I have a date. People find me creepy when I go to social things alone. S—

-She's not going to try to give me a makeover or anything, right?—

-Don't know. Maybe. I told her that the most formal thing you'd probably brought is that cherry print sundress. S—

-Are you still there? S—

-I LIKE that sundress.—

-Apparently since you wear it for almost every occasion that calls for a dress. S—

-Sod off. I have fifteen minutes to get ready apparently.—

-The driver will have my AmEx card. I refused to expense anything. S—

-Isn't that sweet. Now I'm indebted to you instead of her.—

-I'm actually rather certain that you'll never be indebted to me for anything again. Have fun. S—

Having no answer for that last text, Molly drags herself out of the bed, which is tucked into an alcove across the hall from the bathroom. It's just big enough to hold a full sized bed. The layout is more convenient than a traditional studio, but it still feels odd, sleeping in a space that's not quite a bedroom and not quite a hallway. If it were hers she'd put up some paisley print curtains and some beads so it'd feel like a caravan or something. But she's pretty sure that would be considered tacky and wouldn't fit with the sleek minimalism of the rest of the flat.

She admits to feeling relieved about not having to shop on her own. She may have to be vigilant about being forced into something too trendy, but at least she won't get lost in a sea of choices or fall pretty to the machinations of clerks on commission.

Molly knows that some people consider her wardrobe lacking in style. In fact, she often looks at her closet and bureau drawers in complete frustration, because while she's got an image in her head of how she'd like to dress, what she's done over the years is collect an assortment of clothes that are comfortable and somewhat feminine but that she wouldn't mind so much if they were ruined by chemicals or bodily fluids. And a few trendy items that are adorable when she gets to wear them on a night out but are out of season or out of style by the time she has a chance to wear them again.

Before leaving for New York, told herself that she would really look at how people dress in this city and try to bring some of that back with her. Today might be her day to get a good start.

She chooses a plain black A-line dress, black tights, and the grey ankle boots she bought on a whim right before leaving London. She feels like a blank canvas. At the last minute she grabs her cherry print cardigan, like a security blanket, and discovers that with this dress, and in this city, it looks like a statement instead of an admission of defeat.

Cecily is in the car when Molly slides in, and she's immediately relieved that the younger girl is again dressed in jeans and a jumper.

"I have a friend who lived in this building," Cecily says as they pull away. "It's gorgeous. You're lucky. I'd totally be here if I went to NYU."

"Where do you live now?"

"Washington Heights. My boyfriend's dad owns the building. I pay full rent, though. It's a refurbished brownstone, converted into two apartments. So Mr. Keene told me you're a doctor?"

Molly had just formulated a response to the comment about her building and is caught off guard by the change of subject. _How much has Sherlock told her about me?_

"I'm a forensic pathologist."

"So you help solve crimes?"

"Sometimes, yes. What field are you going into?"

"Oncology I think. My parents are so dumbfounded. My dad didn't go to college and my mom's degree is in art history. She thinks she wasted all the ballet and voice and acting lessons, but it gave me poise which has really been fucking necessary the last few years."

"I once discovered a tumor the size of a softball in the abdomen of a man who'd died of a brain aneurysm. Totally unrelated. Both conditions undiagnosed." The words tumble out of Molly's mouth before she can think, her mind having latched onto "oncology." She ducks her head and blushes.

"Shit, no way!" says Cecily. "Was it malignant?"

"Benign."

"No way!"

"Yep. Sh—a colleague of mine ran labs on it for weeks. He was obsessed with it."

"So how do you know Mr. Keene? He told me to call him Shers but it's fucking ridiculous, right? Like my English friend Cecil who wanted to be called 'Cis.' And yes, funny that I had a friend named Cecil, right? He thought CiCi is a ridiculous nickname."

"It's a name a university friend gave him. It's less formal."

This is partly true. Sherlock told her had chosen the name Sheridan because it could be shortened to Shers, a nickname a university acquaintance who was not quite a friend had given him, and was something he didn't have to remind himself to answer to.

"I suppose." Cecily sits back and scrolls through her phone. She is more relaxed and youthful today. Molly imagines she feels less stressed now that she has someone working on her case. She also doesn't have to try to impress Molly as she had Sherlock.

Molly is glad that Cecily has steered herself away from her question. Molly doesn't know how much Cecily knows about Sherlock's occupation and she doesn't want to give away anything he'd rather keep quiet.

The car stops in front of a block long nineteenth century building with a limestone façade.

"Don't worry," Cecily says as the driver lets them out. "Bergdorf is basically just like Harrods. You'll be fine."

"Right," Molly says, as though she pops into Harrods twice a week.

Before they enter through the imposing wood and glass door, Cecily stops Molly and pulls her aside.

"Look, I know you're nervous, but I'm good at this. I'm not going to put you into anything that's going to wear you. In fact, if what I have in mind works, you'll only have to try on one thing." She smiles and squeezes Molly's arm, then leads her inside.

The attention that Cecily receives the second her heels hit the marble floors is overwhelming. Everyone rushes to help her, and to offer assistance to Molly, as her companion. Cecily politely declines and tells them she has a specific Alice+Olivia dress in mind for her dear friend and if someone could fetch a pair of the royal blue Chie Mihara Mary Janes in a size 6 she'd be thrilled. They're ushered directly into a private fitting room, and a clerk brings the shoes and dress right away.

The dress is fairly simple. Knee length and cinched at the waist, with a few deep pleats giving the straight skirt a bit of volume, cap sleeves, and straight neck line with the slightest bit of drape. It might be considered borderline boring if it weren't in a gorgeous shade of deep coral.

"I loved this one on the runway," Cecily says. "But the color doesn't work on me and that's the only one it comes in since it's ready to wear."

Molly is certain she's never seen a more perfect dress than this one. She tries it on and the fit is incredible. The shoes are blue velvet Mary Janes, the vintage styling allowing for a sturdier heel without going into matronly territory.

"You short girls with your tiny feet," Cecily sighs. She comes to stand behind Molly. "We have time to have them take it in just a bit at the waist and take the hem up just about an inch. It's perfect with your hair and your English complexion. And I think a blazer instead of a cape or shawl will give it some edge. Just do a high ponytail with a little bit of volume up front and you're perfect."

Molly blushes. "Thank you."

"No, thank you for trusting me," Cecily smiles. "They can do the alterations while we grab a snack and get our hair done."

Three hours later, the women leave the store, completely ready for the evening ahead. "Honestly, I don't usually do it like this," Cecily says. "I try to wear what I already have unless it's a really big press event. But this was fun. Looks like I'm losing you for the time being, though."

"What?" Molly says.

Cecily points to the curb, where Sherlock waits beside another black car, looking as close to London Sherlock as he possibly can despite his red hair and a pair of heavy framed glasses. He's wearing a navy suit, no tie. He assesses her quickly and gives an approving nod.

"Thank you, Miss Forrester. We'll see you soon. Molly?" He holds the car door open and she slides in. He joins her and they stare at each other as the car eases into traffic. Molly breaks eye contact first and starts laughing.

"What?" he says, lower lip jutting out slightly.

"Nothing," she gasps. "Except this is so bloody surreal. Don't you think?"

He considers it, and shrugs. "Weirder things have happened."


	10. I Saw a Shadow Touch a Shadow's Hand

Sherlock casts a withering look about the entire restaurant (a French bistro that Cecily had suggested when he'd inquired about the color of Molly's dress) as he helps Molly into her jacket. He pins his gaze on a tall man at the table next to the one they'd just vacated. The man whose fault it is that they have been asked to leave before they could even order dessert.

They had been enjoying their main course, cervelle de veau, while Molly told Sherlock about one of the more interesting bodies she had examined since he'd been away, when the lout at the table next to theirs had leaned over to complain.

"Tell your woman to pipe down or change the subject. It's making my girl sick. I'm dropping a huge wad on this dinner and I don't want her to have any excuses not to close the deal, know what I'm sayin'?"

Sherlock looked at Molly, who had stopped talking and stared at her plate, then at the lady in question, who had been studiously examining her fingernails, then back to the other man. Mid forties, five hundred dollar off the rack suit, buzz cut blonde hair, moderate good looks just starting to fade. Works as an attorney but in an office dealing with boring contracts and hasn't seen the inside of a courtroom since he passed the bar exam.

Sherlock takes a breath. "Your 'girl' appears to be in perfect health, though you're looking a bit green about the gills. Hard to tell if it's a result of my companion's conversation or of the impending liver failure but either way, it's not her fault that you're as bored with your date's conversation as you are with your wife's and proceeded to eavesdrop on our conversation in order to alleviate that boredom. Furthermore your date has no intention of 'closing the deal' with you since she spent the entire time you were in the lavatory texting another man. One who, going by her body language and reaction to the replies she received, is a much better at wheeling and dealing that you are. So if you'll excuse me, my friend has been detailing the effects of hydrochloric acid on surrounding tissue in the event of a catastrophic puncture to the stomach and I'd really like to get a look at the dessert menu."

"You sick fuck," he said, rising from his seat. Sherlock stayed seated, not taking his eyes off the man. The nervous maître d appeared, hovering at the other diner's shoulder.

"Is everything alright Mr. van Keller?"

"No. I don't know what kind of weirdoes you're letting in here these days but these two are disturbing my dinner. I'd hate to tell all of my friends who come here that the atmosphere's gone downhill."

"Oh, most certainly not, sir." The maître d scuttled over to Sherlock. "I'm sorry, sir, but I'll have to ask you to leave. You're causing a scene." Sherlock opened his mouth but Molly interjected.

"It's fine. The food was overcooked anyway. We can get dessert somewhere else."

Sherlock had stood, straightened and buttoned his jacket, and tossed a one hundred dollar bill on the table with a sniff, helped Molly with her jacket and escorted her out the door, hand on the small of her back.

Once outside, they stand for a moment getting their bearings. Sherlock ruffles his hair and smiles at her.

"If you want dessert, I noticed a frozen yogurt place a block up. That's popular these days, from what I hear."

"I'm good. All full up on brains. Do you think that man knew what he was eating?"

"No, though I was just about to tell him that there was more cerebral matter on his plate than was shared amongst him, his date, and that maître d."

"Well," she says. "Now I'm almost sorry I stopped you."

He jerks his head toward the main road. "Come on, we're more likely to catch a cab on Bleecker than here."

They walk in silence, past jazz clubs and bars and a book store that Molly asks him to remember so she can come back.

"Thank you," she says as they turn onto Bleecker St.

"For what?"

"For standing up for me. I know I should have said something myself, but I just kind of shut down. I'm always so excited to get to talk about my work with anyone who won't be put off by it…it makes it hard…new friends…boyfriends. When he started going off it just brought back some really uncomfortable memories and I just wanted to disappear."

Sherlock stops and pulls her out of the flow of traffic, next to the window of a vintage store that's shut for the night. He places his hands on her shoulders and notes how much of her deltoids they cover. Wonders if she would shiver if he brushed his thumbs along her trapezius.

"Molly, I enjoyed our conversation. That man was an utter arse. And so was everyone who makes you feel less than for enjoying an incredibly important occupation."

"You've made fun of my jokes before, even though you usually like them."

"That was one time. And I—it was a stupid bloody social occasion and I was in the middle of a case. And I already apologized for all of that."

"You remember?"

"Of course."

She smiles and does something that he blames on her two glasses of wine. She places her hands on his chest, rises on her toes and gives him a kiss. It's barely a kiss, a moment of contact, focused on his bottom lip. The slightest pull. Then it's over and she turns away, taking his hand, which had slipped from her shoulder.

He does something he blames on his glass of wine. He pulls her back to him and slips his arms around her, holding her against him, her hands on his chest again.

"What was that for?" he asks.

"I don't know."

"Yes you do."

She looks at her hands, at something past his shoulder, and back to his face, her eyes shiny and wary as a snared rabbit.

"I'm just tipsy. I'm sorry." She tries to push away but he holds her more tightly.

"I don't want you to be sorry."

"Then what do you want?"

He knows that what he says next is important. He knows that of the thousands of things he desperately wants that are currently scrolling across his mind, there is one that will make this better. But he can't narrow it down. So he lets his arms slacken and steps away from her.

"We'll be late," he says, and goes to the curb to hail a taxi. He doesn't look at her at all during the short ride to the hotel, though he does offer her his arm when they exit the taxi.

She takes his arm but hesitates when he begins to lead them to the door. She is nervous. No longer confident in her shoes or her clothing, fiddling with a tendril of hair that's escaped at her nape. He realizes something he hasn't told her today (or perhaps ever.)

"You look lovely."

"Thank you," she says, though the fidgeting continues. Ah. She is more concerned with making a social faux pas, especially given what just occurred at the bistro, than with her appearance.

"Just talk about musicals and you'll be fine. I'm the one out of my depth here." She looks up at him with a combination of gratitude and surprise.

"You're admitting to being out of your depth? At anything?"

He rolls his eyes and propels them forward, noting with a smirk that both her hands are firmly locked around his arm and she's standing straighter.


	11. Beneath a Neon Moon

Molly has been to a few fundraisers for the hospital and some related charities.  They all seem to be cut from the same cloth.  Cream colored linens, maybe sadly dripping swan ice sculpture, floating trays of canapés that always seemed to be empty by the time they got to Molly, and mediocre champagne.

She’d expected more of the same, but after they duck the press line and bypass the gift lounge (Sherlock tells her she can collect her gift bag when they leave) they find themselves in a space that looks like your average swank pub on a Saturday night, their hostess having opted for the hotel’s bar instead of the ballroom.

The long, narrow room is wall to wall people. Women with iPads in hand weave through the crowd along with the waiters with their trays and a DJ plays mixes of show tunes (the party’s theme is Broadway Loves the Library.)

“Talking’s going to be difficult!” Molly says. 

“Yes,” Sherlock says, leaning down to speak in her ear.  “Eavesdropping will be harder.  Good thing I’m fairly adept at reading lips. I’ll start circulating. Find out what’s up with her.”  He points to one of the iPad bearers and is off before she can protest. 

Molly grabs a coconut shrimp off of one of the trays on her way over to the woman, a college aged girl in a cherry print hijab. She smiles as Molly approaches.

“Hi!  I’m Hiyam.  Would you like to bid?”

“Depends on what I’m bidding on,” Molly says, peering at the iPad.

“We’ve got five Broadway stars here tonight who are auctioning off their voices.  They’ll each sing one song, winner’s choice, at the end of the evening.”

“Any song?” Molly asks.

“We’ve got a list, but yeah, almost everything is on it.  The piano player knows like, everything.”

“I’m sure it’s totally out of my price range,” Molly says.

Hiyam rolls her beautiful brown eyes playfully.  “Tell me about it. I only got in because I volunteered to do this.  It’s better than cater waitering,t hough, because at least I’m allowed to talk to people.”

“Do you do this a lot?” Molly asks.  A waiter with a lone glass of wine on his tray goes past and Molly manages to grab it.

“Just for Mrs. Forrester’s events, as a favor to Cecily.”

“Oh, do you know Cecily?”

“I went to high school with her. I mean, look, I know I’m not poor, not by the standards of like, ninety eight percent of the world or whatever.  But at that school, I pretty much was.  Me and my sister.  My parents worked their asses off to send us there.  And sometimes it sucked, but Cecily was always nice to me.  People talk all kinds of shit about her but she’s kind, and that’s really important, you know?”

“Yeah,” Molly says.  “What kinds of things do people say about her.”

“Oh like all the usual bullshit.  Like she’s a major slut and a cokehead and slept with the Dean of Admissions at Columbia to get in.  Fucking ridiculous.  She had a 4.25 GPA and like a million and five on her SATs and like thirty extracurrics.  People are pathetic.”  She refreshes the screen on her iPad and frowns. “I should make another round. The other girls are catching up to me. Nice talking to you!”

“You, too,” Molly says, a little taken aback still at how easily most Americans will open up to you. At this rate, Sherlock will have the whole case solved in minutes.  She finishes her wine and starts weaving through the crowd through the bar to see about getting another.  A she waits patiently for the bartender’s attention, Cecily joins her and orders two shots of tequila.

“I’m not supposed to drink at these things.  Don’t tell my mom, okay?”

“Erm, okay?” Molly says as Cecily hands her the shot. 

“Do you need a lime?  You shouldn’t. It’s good, and it’s chilled.”

“I don’t think so,” Molly says, not knowing how to tell her that she’s never had tequila.  The younger woman holds her shot glass up and Molly clinks hers against it, then takes the shot. 

It’s surprisingly not bad. It’s much more pleasant than whiskey though not as smooth as vodka.  She coughs a little and Cecily pats her on the back, then hands her another.  “Always go with 1800 or better.  Don’t fuck with Jose and you’ll be fine.”  Molly has no idea what the younger woman is talking about but takes the shot and nods as her knees go a little rubbery. 

At the other end of the bar, Sherlock is shamelessly flirting with a Broadway actor, without a doubt having no idea who the man is.

“Ah, the life of a beard,” a bored voice says beside her.

“Excuse me?” she says, turning toward the voice. Cecily has vanished, and in her spot is  a blonde man in his mid-twenties who looks like he just stepped out of a J. Crew catalog.

“You know, woman who dates a closeted man to keep up appearances.”

“Oh, no. It’s not—we’re—“

“Oh I’m sorry, you didn’t know?”

“No, there’s  nothing to—I mean—“

Molly has considered the possibility that Sherlock might be gay, but every time it comes to that, she dismisses it.  It would have been such an easy way for him to let her down once he became aware of her feelings for him.  Even if he wanted to keep a secret, he obviously trusts her, so why wouldn’t he have told her?  Add to that his very obvious but still unknown past with Irene Adler and she’s fairly confident his interest lies with women at least part of the time.

“He’s not gay,” she says.  “He’s just very friendly.”

“I see.  Connor Van der Vaden.”  He extends his hand and she shakes it, tentatively.  “That’s Dutch.”

“Yes.”

“Well, you know, New York used to be New Amsterdam. My family were peers with the Stuyvesants, though we don’t have a street named after us.”

“Oh.  Well, you learn something new every day!”

“Yeah, you do.”

“All this time I’d thought that Americans weren’t as obsessed with class.”  He frowns and she puts her hand over her mouth, surprised at how loose her tongue has gotten with just two drinks. “I’m sorry.  I didn’t—“

“It’s fine!” he says, smiling tightly.  “British humor, right?”

“Right, well, er, do you know CiCi?”

“Yeah she went to my school’s sister school.  I could tell you some stories.”

Sensing a theme, she leans in conspiratorially.  “Do tell.”

“Well, you’ve met her. Sexy as hell but also comes off as kind of a tight ass, right?”

“Right,” Molly says slowly, though she hasn’t gotten that impression at all.

“Get a little coke in that girl though and not only will she spill all her secrets but she’ll do almost anything.”

“Oh—that’s—nice.”  Molly looks back over at Sherlock who has moved on to talking to a waitress.  She looks back at Connor as a tall young man with copper skin and dimples joins them.  “Molly?” he says. Molly nods.  “Cecily sent me to get you. She wants to introduce you to her mother.  I’m Devon.”

“Oh, Devon,” Molly says, shaking Cecily’s boyfriend’s beautifully manicured hand.  “Nice to meet you.  Nice meeting you, too, Connor.”

“Yeah,” Connor says.  He gives a curt nod to Devon. “What’s up?”

“The usual,” Devon says.  “Enjoy your evening.” As they walk away, Devon leans over to talk in Molly’s ear.  “Cecily saw you and thought you might need an out.”

“Thank you.  I was fine but thank you.  Have you gotten a chance to talk to Sher—Shers yet? About, Cecily’s—problem?”

“Yeah we talked for a minute.  He said he had some ideas.”

“He always does,” Molly says.  She looks back at the bar but doesn’t see Sherlock, then turns back to find him in her path.  How does he move through this damned crowd so quickly?

“Thank you for taking care of her, Devon.  I’ll take it from here,” Sherlock says, offering his arm.

“No problem.  Take care, Molly,” the younger man says, flashing Molly a brilliant smile.

“You, too,” she blushes. 

“I’ve got all I need here if you’d like to go."

“Yes, please,” she says.  “Tequila is nice but it is definitely—strong.”

“I can tell. Let’s get your jacket.”  He turns toward the front and coat check but she stops him.

“Wait.  You promised.  I’m not leaving without my swag bag.”


	12. What the Head Makes Cloudy

Sherlock lets Molly have his gift bag in addition to her own and she spends most of the cab ride pawing through them. 

“How in the world did they raise any money if they’re giving away Tiffany key chains and spa treatments?”

“The items are donated.  The companies want their name associated with a good cause,” Sherlock says.  She allows herself a few moments to admire his profile as he gazes out the window. As the cab gets closer to her apartment building, she hopes for a sudden late night traffic jam or anything that would prolong their time in the car. She’s always treasured the moments she’s had him to herself, even if it’s only silently doing lab work.   She’s pretty sure, though, that if they did end up in gridlock he’d just make her get out and walk.

A late night walk wouldn’t be too bad, either, even if it was a good ten avenue blocks.

“If you aren’t planning on going to sleep soon I’d like to bounce ideas off of you,” he says, not turning from the window. “Talk at you, you know, the usual.”  He faces her and gives her a quick smile, the one he uses only because he’s supposed to. 

The idea of having him in her sitting room late at night after she’s had a few drinks is both exciting and unnerving.

“Sure, if you don’t keep me up too late.  I mean—talking.  You know.”

“You can fall asleep and I’ll keep talking. It really doesn’t matter, though I’d like your input on who you talked to first.”

“Well—“

“Shh,” he admonishes, jerking his head toward the cab driver.  “Wait until we’re back at yours.”

As soon as they get to her apartment, she goes into the walk in closet and changes into her baggiest pajama bottoms and an enormous sweatshirt, then brushes her hair out and piles it on top of her head.  She even takes out her contacts and puts on her glasses.  It’s meant to make her appear frumpy and unattractive, because her better nature is telling her to keep her distance.  However, when Sherlock’s eyes light up as he looks her over, she thinks she may have miscalculated.  He quickly composes his features, sheds his jacket and rolls up his sleeves as Molly wanders to the range to make tea.

“All of these appliances and she doesn’t have an electric kettle,” Molly says as she fills the cherry red stove top kettle at the sink.  “I think it might be worth it to get one and just leave it for her but I haven’t felt like making the trip anywhere that would have one.”

“Order it online,” he says and flops onto the sofa.  She joins him and starts to ask what he found out at the party but he stops her.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in glasses. I knew you wore contacts, but how have I never seen that?”

“Oh, er, that is odd, I guess.  I mean, I wear my glasses to work some days, but I’m horrible about taking my contacts out, even though I’ve seen so many cases of ulcerated corneas I could write my dissertation on it.”

“You should wear them more often,” he says, brow furrowed. 

“Really?”

“Yes, they suit you.”

“Hmm,” she says. Somehow during the course of this conversation they have moved closer to each other and her hand is resting on his knee.  His eyes flick from hers to her mouth and back up.  He licks his lips and leans in just as the teakettle emits a shrill whistle.  Molly leaps up and goes to turn off the flame. 

“So, that Connor guy, went to school with Cecily?  He said that Cecily’s got a pretty big mouth when she’s on cocaine. So do you think she slipped up and told someone about the video and doesn’t remember?”

“Definitely a possibility,” he says.  He’s moved back to the corner of the sofa, wedging himself in with his feet up, arms folded around his knees.  His cheeks are flushed.  She adds milk to his tea and brings it to him, tucking herself into the opposite corner of the couch with her mug.

“Did you have anything to drink at the party?” she asks. 

“Some dancer made me do some sort of noxiously sweet shot with her but that’s all.  Why?”

“Oh, you’re just a bit flushed,” she says, gesturing to her cheeks.

“Oh.”  He stands up and goes to the window, looking out over the magnificent skyline.  “That’s just. It’s warm in here.  Do you always keep the heat on this high?”

“I keep it at sixty eight Fahrenheit which is—“

“Twenty degrees Celsius I know,” he finishes, waving his hand.  She joins him at the window, touching her hand to the cool glass and following with her forehead.  It feels glorious against her heated skin. 

“Were you scared?” she says after a few moments.

“Hmm?” He’s mimicked her stance, pressing his head against the glass and looking down to the street below.

“When you jumped.  Were you scared?”

“Of course I was.  There were several variables that could have led to my being seriously injured or killed despite the air bag.  Only an idiot wouldn’t be somewhat scared.”

“But were you scared about leaving everything behind?”

“I didn’t come up here to talk about this.”

“You’re the one that changed the subject.”

“When?”

“About three subjects ago.”

Sherlock pushes away from the window but continues to stare out into the night. 

“I’m going to have to attempt contact with Irene Adler,” he says. 

Molly’s stomach roils at this.  She closes her eyes and breathes through the nausea and disappointment. It’s for the case.  She doesn’t even really know anything. 

“Is that a problem?” she asks.  She steps away from the window and goes to retrieve her tea, realizing when she picks up the mug that she doesn’t really want it.

“It’s complicated,” he says.  “I assumed I would need to attempt contact at some point due to her having quite intimate knowledge of the workings of Moriarty’s network.  Her reaching out to me is odd.  She wouldn’t compromise herself just to help a young woman she barely knows. In her old life, perhaps, but not when the stakes are this high. She’s involved in this at some other level.”

“How will you contact her?” 

“We have a system in place.  We set it up when we parted ways in Pakistan.”

His voice is again tinged with the softness of fond memories, and she feels the ten feet between her and him, his back still facing her, is as vast as the ocean that separated them a week ago.  She hurls the question across that divide as soon as it’s formed in her brain.

“Do you love her?”

Finally, he turns to look at her, eyes wide. He looks her over and despite the kindness of his gaze she’s never felt so small and useless and frumpy and _needy_. She clutches her mug tightly in her hands, bracing herself.

“I care for her, and at one point, yes, I would say I did love her.  Was in love with her.  But it could never work.”

“Even if she came back to you, right now?”

“Molly, the two of us are legally dead. There’s absolutely nothing keeping me from being with her if I want.  It’s true that she was like my mirror image and that was fascinating. But a mirror reflects your flaws as well as your assets.  It will always be comforting to know that I’m not alone.  Well, to have tangible proof.  Logically, I really didn’t consider myself to be completely unique amongst 7 billion people, though I did consider myself to be above it all.  But she’s not what I want. It became clear in a very short amount of time.”

“Okay,” Molly whispers.

Sherlock walks over to her slowly and takes the mug from her hand.  “You might want to put that down before you break it,” he says.

She looks down and flexes her stiff fingers.  “Yeah.  Silly me.”

“You’ve had a lot to drink.  Best we continue this in the morning?”

“Are you staying here?”

“I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”

“On the sofa.”

“I won’t be sleeping but it looks adequate. Just in case.”

“Okay.”  She starts to go but stops, facing him again.  She stands on her toes and brushes a quick kiss to his cheek.  “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know, really.  Good night.”  She retreats to her room and buries herself under the duvet, falling asleep to the furious click of his fingers on her laptop and the rumble of an approaching storm.


	13. The Heart Makes Very Clear

Sherlock ignores the fifth text from Mycroft reminding him of the reason he is in New York in the first place, and refreshes the page.  Another response to his query on the best yarns for cable knit jumpers, but not the response he’s looking for.  It’s two in the afternoon in Paris, if that’s indeed where she is.  Irene is not a late riser, and she would expect communication from him. 

He refreshes the Knitting Nans forum again and takes a sip of his tea.  No new replies.

“Fuck it,” he mutters, and sets Molly’s laptop on the coffee table.  He wanders to the refrigerator and peers in, expecting to find at least a six pack of Coca-Cola seeing as how the hostess is American.

Chinese leftovers from two days ago, five different kinds of mustard, a jar of olives and a lone container of yogurt that expired a week ago. The freezer is completely bare save a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Chubby Hubby that is growing ice crystals. He calculates how many bodies one could fit in either side of the massive unit and shuts the door.

His stomach growls. He ignores it but it persists.  A search for coffee reveals cupboards are as desolate as the refrigerator.  The options are to pop round to the corner store for some or waking Molly and asking her to go.  It’s pissing down out so the first one is out. He’s halfway down the hall before it hits him what a monumentally not good idea that is.  He does peek in on her--finding her spread eagle on the bed but thankfully fully covered by her sheet—before returning to her laptop.

No new replies yet, but he’s not concerned with it at the moment. He pulls up GrubHub and finds a restaurant that delivers breakfast.  He will need to order five cups of black coffee to meet their delivery minimum.  Or, he thinks, cursor hovering over the checkout button, he could order breakfast for Molly. She eats at least two meals a day normally, and she’ll be in need of some protein and carbohydrates after drinking.  

Sherlock takes a moment to sift through his information about her until he finds the file on things he’s seen her eat. A lot of snack foods while working, tea with sugar, coffee with milk, sandwiches of all varieties, biscuits of all kinds, frozen dinners that were on sale or something (she was rambling to one of her coworkers about it one morning) Ready Brek, peaches, some awful protein shakes she’d hated but bought from a friend because she couldn’t say no, a cherry flavored lolly that stained her lips and tongue, and whatever was the least disgusting thing in the canteen.

In the end, he orders three different breakfast sandwiches, two kinds of juice, a parfait and two large cups of coffee.  One with milk, one with two sugars.  

There’s finally a new reply to his forum inquiry when clicks to the other tab.  A mobile number and a time to call it revealed in a list of sizes and fibers and handle and loft from user Diamonds_and_Purls.   He thanks all the respondents profusely and logs out. 

Having been roused by the buzzer, Molly stumbles into the room just as Sherlock closes the door on the delivery girl. Her face is slightly puffy and sleep creased and her hair is haphazardly pulled back into a low ponytail. Her glasses sit slightly askew on her nose. She looks at the bag and drink carrier in his hand and her eyes light up in a way that makes Sherlock feel suddenly small and shy.

“I needed coffee,” he says.  “There’s none here.”

“Yeah I’ve been a bit busy playing detective to sort all that out,” she says.

“No! It’s okay. I wasn’t—“

“I know,” she says.  “I was teasing.”

“Right.  Well, the delivery minimum was fifteen dollars and buying actual food made a bit more sense than five cups of coffee.”

“Of course,” she says, eyeing the bag and licking her lips. 

“So. There are some things in here.”  He holds the bag out.  “Breakfast things.”  He holds out the drink carrier.  “Coffee.  I believe yours is on the left.”

Molly takes the bag and the coffee, thanks him, and goes to the counter.  “There’s enough here for three people.  Are you eating?”

“No, coffee’s fine.  I didn’t know what you’d like. I’ve never seen you eat a real breakfast.”

“I like to sleep as late as I can.”  She chooses the egg and croissant sandwich and the bottle of apple juice.  “This will be fine, and the rest should be reheat okay.”

Sherlock has his coffee to his lips before he notices that it’s still nestled firmly in the carrier.  Luckily she hasn’t seen, as she’s busy devouring her sandwich. He studiously ignores the little moaning sound she makes when she first bites into it, and the way her tongue flicks out to catch the flaky crumbs before they fall from her lips.

“Christ, this is good coffee,” he says once he’s got the cup dislodged from the carrier and tossed the offending item in the recycling bin. 

Molly stops scoffing her sandwich long enough to take a sip from hers and murmurs her agreement.

“What’re your plans for the day?”

“I have to buy a prepaid phone sometime before noon.”

“Is that it?”

“Well, then I have to have a possibly awkward conversation with an ex.”

“Ah,” she says, turning to dig in the takeaway bag again. She pulls out the parfait and starts picking the blueberries off the top layer.  “I once had to call an ex two months after a terrible breakup because he had my passport. We’d been planning a backpacking trip but week broke up two days before we were supposed to leave.  He had all our paperwork in this stupid binder, and I didn’t even think about it until I wanted to go to Paris over Christmas. I’m still not sure why he didn’t mail it back.  I know he ended up letting some other girl use my Eurail pass.  Not as awkward as asking your ex if she recommended you to a client she’s blackmailing, but awkward.”

“Hmm,” he says.  Her story has been relegated to background noise as he watches her pop the blueberries into her mouth and suck yogurt off of her fingers.  Having reached a solid yogurt layer, she opens a drawer in search of flatware, but he beats her to it, deducing the most likely location based on the layout of the kitchen and what he knows of Molly’s hostess.  He presents it to her with a flourish and a giggle bubbles out of her, but when their fingers brush, the laughter dies and her smile fades. 

He lets go of the spoon and she takes it, but instead of returning to her food she sets it on the counter behind her without looking.  Her eyes are wide, filled with an intriguing mix of fear and arousal and locked onto his.   He takes a step forward and does the thing they’ve been dancing around since last night.  Hell, since they first met in the park.  Or really, since the first day they met.  He cups her face in his hands, bends down and kisses her.  She makes a muffled noise of surprise before wrapping her own arms around his neck, burying her hands in his hair.  He groans at this, and she takes the opportunity to suck his bottom lip into her mouth, nibbling on it slightly before releasing it and turning her attention to his top lip.  Frustrated with the difference in height, he scoops her up under her bottom, lifts her to the counter and steps between her legs.  Now she’s looking down at him, still aroused, though the fear has been replaced by bemusement.  He leans in to kiss her again, this time more slowly, and works his way down her jaw and her neck.

“I’m still asleep, aren’t I?” she says, breathless as he slides his hands underneath her t shirt and up her back.  He is infinitely grateful that she doesn’t wear a bra to bed.

“Definitely not. Are your erotic dreams usually this vivid?”

“Only…” she trails off as he takes her earlobe between his teeth.  “Only when it’s you.”

“As much as I’d like to believe that,” he kisses her firmly on the mouth and moves to the other side, his thumb grazing the ear he’d just abandoned. “It’s highly improbable.” 

“Mmm, it’s true,” Molly sighs.  “But Sherlock.  Sherlock.  Hold on.”  She pulls away and holds his face in her hands, her lips alluringly swollen and her hair even more mussed.

“Yes?”

“What about the case.  Buying the phone?  Your phone call?”

A quick glance at the microwave clock confirms it’s only eight forty five.  The hair tie is easy to slide out of her hair and she moans as he cards his fingers into the tangles. 

“Oh Molly,” he whispers in her ear.  “We’ve got ages.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> forgot to say thank you last time to everyone for sticking with this despite the huge gap between updates, so I'll combine that with a welcome to new readers. Also, if you want to find me on tumblr, my url is soyeahso.


	14. The Thrill of First Nighting

_So this is what it’s like._

Molly trails her hands up Sherlock’s sides, over his shirt, the pale pink Oxford cotton catching slightly on her callused fingertips. The muscles of his back flex under her hands as he pulls her closer.  She’s imagined this so many different ways and the closest she ever got to reality was the time she dreamed they were fucking in the stairwell at 221 Baker Street, and she’d woken up swearing she could taste him.  Right now it’s coffee and sugar and yes he’s been downstairs to smoke at least once.  She’s hungover and smells of sleep and her breath can’t be great and he doesn’t seem to care, going by the way he’s pulling her tongue into his mouth.

He steps back and pulls her shirt over her head, tosses it aside and cups her breasts in his warm hands, gently squeezing her nipples between his index and ring fingers.  She wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him close again, their lips meeting desperately.  And God yes he picks her up and she holds on  tightly with her legs as he carries her down the hall to her bedroom. 

There’s an extraordinary likelihood that this is the worst thing they could possibly do. That they’re both doing it for the wrong reasons.  Sherlock because he’s alone and adrift and Molly because she’s afraid she’ll never get another chance at this.

She doesn’t give a flying fuck. 

He sets her down as gently as possible and she immediately crawls across the bed to flip the lamp on, washing the windowless room in a warm glow.

“What?” she says in response to the bemusement on Sherlock’s face.

“I thought most people prefer the lights off.”

“I want to see you,” she says. “That totally trumps all of my insecurities.”  It’s not quite true, but it’s true enough that she’ll only turn off the light if he insists.  “That’s okay, yeah?”

His cheeks turn a becoming shade of pink and he nods before stretching out over her, bracketing her shoulders with his forearms.  He leans in and presses a kiss to her mouth. 

He pulls away and scans her face for a long moment. “You’re afraid.”

“No, not afraid. It’s just a little overwhelming.  I mean, a lot overwhelming.  I’ve wanted this for so long and I can’t really believe it’s real I guess.”

“Molly, it’s just me.”

She shakes her head.  “That’s the thing.  There will never be anything ‘just’ about you.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m certain I’ve wanted this almost as long as you have.”

He could be lying. He has to be lying. She looks up at him and the sincerity in his eyes takes her breath away. He looks the way he did the night he came to her for help in her lab.

“Do you mean it?”

His lips turn down in a pretty pout and he nods.

“Show me?” She means to make it sexy and strong, but it comes out a whisper.  The moment hangs like a bubble blown but not released yet, when one breath could mean the difference between a perfect iridescent sphere, and an eye full of soap.

Then he’s sliding down her body, his mouth soothing the burn the stubble on his face trails across her skin. He kisses straight down her neck, between her breasts, and when he reaches her navel, hooks his fingers into the waistband of her sweatpants and pulls them off her, leaning back on his heels as he tosses them aside.  She’s aching for him, and as much as she’d love it if he kissed every inch of her body and spent quite a lot of time sucking on certain parts, she wants him inside her as soon as humanly possible.

 

As he looks her over, laid out before him in nothing but her knickers, she fights the urge to cover herself, vulnerable from her nakedness and the boldness of her thoughts. He smiles and touches a red spot on the side of her foot at the base of her big toe.  “From your shoes last night?” he asks. 

“Yeah.”

“They weren’t comfortable?”

“They were as comfortable as heels can be.”

“Hmmm,” he nods, as though he understands.  Well, she wouldn’t put it past him to have worn heels at some point. For a case of course.

“If you’re going to lecture me on how I shouldn’t wear painful things because they’re fashionable you should skip it, Mr. ‘The real reason I don’t eat anything is because my shirt and waistband would burst open if I did.’”

“Noted,” he says.

“You can tell me how wonderful my legs looked last night, though.”

He runs his hand up her leg to her inner thigh.  “Your legs look wonderful.”

“Cheeky.”  She pokes him in the chest with her toes.  “I’m in my knickers and you’re still dressed.”

“We can fix that. Would you rather watch me undress or help me?”

In answer, she sits up and reaches for his shirt, yanking the tail out of his trousers.  She works quickly despite her shaking hands, unbuttoning from the bottom up until it falls open, revealing his exquisitely sculpted chest.  She’s seen it all before, of course, but the circumstances were vastly different. Clinical and swift and she’d compartmentalized any emotion beyond those that would help her finish her part in his plan.

Now, though, as he unbuttons his cuffs and shrugs the shirt from his shoulders, as she lays her hand flat on his abdomen and he inhales shakily, as her hand dance up his torso (internal oblique, external oblique, a quick detour up the linear alba, back to the serratus anterior and pectoralis majora, then a quick kiss on the deltoid) she savors every freckle and scar.  Dragging her nails lightly back down his chest, she thumbs open his waistband more deftly than she thought she was capable, and with a deep breath unzips him and pushes down his trousers and pants.

And of course, like the rest of him, his cock is absolutely perfect in shape and size, at least for her preferences.  She has to stifle a laugh at the joy of this discovery, because the last thing any man wants to hear when someone first sees his prick is laughter.  Instead, she looks up at him and smiles before taking it in her hand, stroking the underside softly with her palm. His eyes flutter shut and he licks his lips.  Sherlock, this man of ironclad control, the epitome of the stiff upper lip, is coming undone from the lightest touch.  She strokes him more firmly, wrapping her entire hand around him, and his eyes fly open.  He runs his hand roughly through her hair.

“You smiled when you saw it.  Why?”

“Because it’s exactly what I like.”

“How is that?” 

She blushes more furiously than she has from his kisses, her hands falling into her lap.  “Well—I mean.  Sherlock.”

“Tell me what you like about it,” he says in what is possibly his lowest register.

“Well, it’s an outstanding length, but not so long that you’d be playing pool with my uterus. But—more importantly it’s really thick, so…” she blushes again and he puts his finger under her chin and tilts her head back to look up at him.

“Why is that good?” 

“Because you’ll fill me up and it’ll hurt just in the right spots and feel so fucking good.”

“Do you like it to hurt?”

“Just enough.”  She takes him in hand again and strokes him softly for a few more seconds.  “What do you want me to do?” she asks.  He inhales and looks at the ceiling. 

“Oh god.  Erm.  I just had about fifteen different ideas.  Hold on.”  He closes his eyes and she stops her motion in order to allow him to think. 

“Okay,” he says.  “I just. I’m sorry I just need to be inside you.”

“It’s okay,” she says.  “I’m really wet just from the kissing, but you’ll still need to go slow at first, okay?”

He’d nearly lost it again when she said the word “wet,” groaning softly. He shuffles off the bed and rids himself of his trousers and pants as she turns on her belly to reach for the bedside drawer.  While she’s fishing around for a condom, he drags her knickers off of her and then stretches over her, kissing the back of her neck.

For a moment after she finds one of the foil packets, she pictures it, him fucking her just like this.  An angle that is exquisite but far too infrequently experienced, their hands locked in front of them, his breath in her ear.

But she wants to see his face when he slides into her.  She rolls over and hands him the condom.  He’s not adept at it but he gets it on correctly without her help.

 Sherlock leans over her again, pushing her legs apart. His entire body is taut as he guides himself toward her entrance . He places his hands on the bed next to her hips and looks down to where their bodies are aligned as he enters her, a few inches at a time over several deepening strokes. 

“Don’t move,” he gasps when she pulls her knees back to better accommodate him and lifts her hips to meet him.  She holds completely still. He closes his eyes tightly and whispers something that sounds like numbers as he seats himself fully inside her.

He opens his eyes and she’s met with a look she’s never seen from this man or any other. It is not just lust (though there is that.)  It’s not love (though she thinks maybe, there might be that.)  The only word she can find to describe it is rapture.

It feels like the first time she realized she had all the knowledge and tools at her disposal to commit the perfect murder.

“Is it as good as you thought it’d be?”

“Oh god it feels so fucking good, Sherlock.”

“You—you feel—incredible, too.” He presses his forehead to hers and kisses her, open mouthed and sloppy as he starts to move.

She cries out at the first thrust and he stops, asking her if she’s alright.

“Yes, just please don’t stop.”

He doesn’t, and in an embarrassingly short amount of time her muscles tense and all the ache blooms into pleasure, spiraling out from her center, his thumb on her clit coaxing out every last spasm. 

Before she can fully catch her breath he sits up and pulls her onto his lap, holding onto her hips as he thrusts up into her.  When she’s gained control of her muscles again she throws her arms around his neck and rides him, the pressure building up again as his fingers rake all over her body, in her hair, down her back and to her hips again as with a final stuttering thrust they come together, his moan drowning out hers.

As they come down from their high, she’s afraid to open her eyes. 

“Molly,” he says, pushing her damp hair off her forehead. 

“Yes,”’ she says.  She opens her eyes and he looks at her dreamily, his eyelids half shut.

“Nothing,” he says.  “Just.  Molly.”

 


	15. 8 Million Stories

The street is maddening after the quiet of Molly’s apartment, the peace of Molly’s body.  He walks twelve blocks before he’s got it all sorted, compartmentalized, processed. Or at least processed enough that the equations to graph every curve of her body weren’t papering the walls of his mind palace.

The one thing that nags him still is that she had kissed him so chastely at the door when he left. The same woman who had been squirming beneath his tongue an hour ago, right before he’d taken her again, on the living room floor. The same mouth that had wrapped so beautifully around his cock had bestowed him with the dry, papery kiss of a grandmother.

He slams the door on it all. He’ll deal with it when he sees her again.

He stops at a deli with several advertisements in the window for several prepaid wireless dealers. A one eyed cat sits on top of the display, blinking slowly at him. It hops down and winds its way around his legs when Sherlock enters the store.

The tiny dark haired woman who’d been restocking the candy in front of the counter shoos the cat away. “Mariposa!  Stop or this man will fall and sue us,” she says in an Ecuadorian dialect of Spanish. “Then how will we buy you your fresh fish?  You’ll be living off of rats. Not that you ever bother catching any.” The cat retreats to the sunny window and begins a vigorous grooming session.

 “Sorry,” the woman says in English.  “Mariposa hardly ever likes anybody, but when she does she’s really enthusiastic about it.”

“No problem,” Sherlock replies in Spanish.  “My…friend…loves cats.  Maybe she sensed that?” 

The woman looks at him oddly and then shakes her head, likely chalking it up to poor linguistics.  “English is fine,” she says.  “Can I help you with anything?”

He purchases the phone and a pack of cigarettes without any more gaffs and even takes a moment to pet Mariposa on his way out.  The cat responds with a hiss.

“Fickle,” he mutters, stepping out onto the sidewalk.  Four blocks and a cigarette later, he finds a relatively quiet corner in a small park.

The last time he saw Irene Adler she’d gotten into a taxi in Amsterdam at the end of an impulsive rendezvous a few weeks after they’d parted ways in Pakistan. That Irene, in jeans and an oversized jumper, wearing a knapsack and looking like a student, had kissed his cheek and then run her finger down the side of his face to remove a smear of lipstick.   Their reunion had been shorter than planned. They’d been at breakfast in their hotel when they’d simultaneously come to the conclusion that they couldn’t recapture the spark of their previous encounters, no matter the thrill of meeting clandestinely.  The game was the fuel and neither of them was inclined to play anymore.

It doesn’t mean he doesn’t worry about her. He dials the  number.

Irene answers on the third ring, her voice low and edgy.

“How are you involved in this?” Sherlock asks.

“I’ll tell you what I can and then I’m disappearing.  I’m throwing this phone in the river in five minutes.”

It takes Sherlock a moment to recover. He’d prepared himself for a few verbal volleys before they got down to business.

“What’s going on, then?”

“Surely you’ve figured out by now that this isn’t someone who knows Cecily personally, and that she’s not the real target?”

“I’ve been circling around that conclusion. I admit I’ve been a bit—“

“Distracted. Yes.  If I had more time I’d ask who she is.  But I don’t.”

 “It’d help if you started from the beginning. “ He lights another cigarette and leans back on the bench. 

“Someone found me and threatened to reveal my whereabouts. They didn’t ask for money, just information.  I have information on a lot of people, and Cecily had the least to lose.”

“Only her reputation.”

“A woman can live without a reputation. Sometimes we’re better off. She has no idea how resilient she could be. Some of the other information I have could put lives at risk.”

“How did you know about the tape?”

“She told me.  I interview my clients separately, to find out what their hard limits are. Sometimes beginners are more open with strangers about that.  I also ask them if they’ve ever violated anyone’s trust.”

“Why would a blackmailer be interested in a socialite?”

“Because of who _she_ knows.  When a blackmailer doesn’t ask for money, what are they after?”

“Power, of course. But it’s not like she’s a Senator’s daughter. Most of her prominent contacts are in media.”

“And it’s the twenty first century. Someone with Cecily’s connections wields a lot more power than a politician’s daughter.”

“And you know who the blackmailer is?”

“I have an extremely strong suspicion.  He used Jim on more than one occasion for some of his dirty work. He’s a newspaper man.”

Sherlock jumps up and begins to pace in front of the park bench. “Ah, of course. He’s after her boyfriend. Devon recently purchased several African American newspapers in various neighborhoods in the city and in New Jersey. They have a huge combined circulation that would be useful to any media mogul but, going by statistical likelihood our blackmailer is a white male in his fifties, hardly someone who could be the face behind those publications without serious backlash. So he couldn’t just buy them, he has to go through a proxy.  But why not just go after Devon directly?”

“You’ve looked into his background, right?”

 “Of course. He’s completely clean.  Not even a traffic ticket. So the blackmailer goes after the person closest to him, someone who does have a skeleton or two in the closet. Easy. I tell them the blackmailer’s motive and they can break up.”

“Oh, Sherlock. It really doesn’t work that way,” Irene says, affection softening the scolding.

“Tell me then, how does it work?”

“He’d still care about her, Sherlock, regardless of their relationship status. That’s what they’re banking on.”

Sherlock lights a cigarette off of the end of the one he’s finished and sits back down. “Why did you bring me into this, again?”

“Because they’ll never really leave me alone, no matter how deep underground I go.  And they may never leave Cecily alone and I do have a conscience.”

“Did you offer my services pre-emptively or did she come to you?”

“She knew I had connections, and that I’m discrete.”

“So you sold her out to a blackmailer. Then sold me out to her in order to fix everything?”

“Would you expect anything else of me?”

“Not really, but you’re aware that I have a fairly large criminal web to take down and don’t have time for some newspaper man with dreams of Manifest Destiny?”

“I think you’d have crossed his path eventually anyway. I’m surprised you haven’t before.”

Sherlock waits but she doesn’t elaborate. “You’re not going to give me a name are you?”

“Sorry, no.  That’s five minutes. Goodbye Mr. Holmes.”

“Irene.”

The line goes quiet but he can still hear the street sounds a few thousand miles away. 

“Yes.”

“I may not be able to get to it right away. But I’ll do my best.”

“You always do.”

“Erm.  Take care?”

“Always, Mr. Holmes.  Goodbye.”

The line goes completely silent this time. Sherlock sits back on the bench, eyes falling shut as he enters his mind palace. His journalistic knowledge runs more toward the sensational but the culprit likely has his fingers in a multitude of pies.  When he finally opens his eyes, the sun has moved a considerable distance in the sky, leaving his little corner cool and shady.

A bell rings at the school across from the park and a herd of uniformed children come streaming out its double doors.  Sherlock smokes another cigarette, ignoring the sideways glances from the nannies and mums. A woman with long brown hair kneels to tie her daughter’s shoe, then fawns over a drawing the child hands to her.  The two walk toward the subway station hand in hand.  Sherlock swallows the lump in his throat and attributes the tightness in his chest to the chain smoking.  He stands up and walks to the nearest corner, hails a taxi, and gives the driver Cecily’s address.


End file.
